What Love Is Page #3

Dumped on Valentine's day.

Unbelievable.

I'm sick.

I gave Sara three years

of my life. Three good years.

I mean, sure, we had

our problems, everybody does.

But, uh,

it was mostly good times.

That's how you're

supposed to tell.

I mean, nobody's perfect,

but as long as the good times

outweigh the bad,

that's what's supposed

to count, right?

Unless she didn't

see it that way.

Unless I really

didn't make her happy.

Bullshit, Tommy.

You're a man.

Since when is it a man's job

to make a woman happy?

Want this one?

I don't think so.

My point is,

you were happy, right?

For three years,

you were happy.

You know what I'd give for that?

This here, my right arm.

Look at me. I'm a lonely,

drunken, misogynistic a**hole

who goes from one empty

relationship to another,

whose only solace is found

completely obliterated

at the bottom

of a bottle of whiskey.

I can't remember

a single time in my life

when I was happy

for three consecutive days,

let alone three years.

Are you kidding me?

You know whose fault

that is? Mine.

'Cause I am responsible

for my own happiness.

If Sara wasn't happy,

that is her own f***ing problem.

She didn't do the things

that she needed to do

to make sure she was happy.

You're not Dionne Warwick.

You're not a mind reader. You're

not a psychic best friend.

You are tom Reilly,

one of the best people I know.

And if she can't see that,

then she needs to go

to lens crafters.

Why does it hurt

so bad, huh?

Why do I feel like

I wanna die inside?

'Cause you're beautiful, tom.

He's right, you're beautiful.

Not a fag or nothing,

but you're like a real person.

You are a man.

You don't think if I knew Karen

was gonna leave me,

I wouldn't be down here crying,

asking you two geniuses

how I could get her back?

Christ, Sal, too.

You had me until

you brought Sal into it.

Ha-ha. Very funny.

You don't think I got feelings?

You don't think I'm sensitive?

Let me tell you something.

I got more feelings

in my left nut

than you two schoolgirls

put together.

Ooh. Come on now.

Here we go again.

Ooh. I know.

I know what they say about me.

I know what they say

about guys like me.

They say that we're pigs,

right? That we're dogs.

Uh, in your defense,

they don't exclude.

I been married five years,

my wife still says it.

Oh, that's right. They don't

exclude. They say "all. "

"All men are pigs.

All men are dogs.

All men are scum. "

They talk and talk and talk

their little asses off

about what monsters we are.

They don't understand

that they're the very ones

that created the Frankenstein's

they abhor.

Frankenstein was a whore?

Leave my wife out of this.

Laugh all you want,

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