My Dishonest Analog of a Dialogue (Beware the Superglue Coup)

What would you say to the people you've loved who are dying or dead? Or just dead to you? Keep your answers to yourself, Class, because I believe that self-deception is a motherfucking sacrament and I don't want to be a party to anything bearing a passing resemblance to truth. Now pass your goddamn papers forward so I can grade you on your virtue and punctuation; and jade myself further into lonely inner-space oblivion. Affection whore? Some, spelled like sum, and the mind boggles at the things that get you yelled at 'round these parts. Me? I'm the original lampshade; easy, like eggs over, and I go out of my way not to make sense in my spare time, since all my claimed hours are filled with proof of my rationality. I'm lippy, that's a truth, and its ugly, another truth, but not ugly enough, because no amount of make-up can make up for that degree of degeneracy. And just because I don't always cry foul doesn't mean I don't notice. I do. Notice. Its that my tolerance is high; conditioning is a bitch. So you paint your bone and I'll pass that ass and during the many hours that you don't require my attention, I'll devise a way to train myself not to care. Like the old days when I drifted from blue to black to the tune of a sad violin's last refrain, orchestrated by my disappointment which masqueraded as my detachment; principally fucked. I bet you could never throw her picture away and sometimes I think you might be using me, but then I remember that I am not pretty nor rich enough, not nearly, and I have a problem with keeping my goddamn mouth shut and you have a problem with escapism and I am not really sure which stone will kill both birds but I know that I will never get what I want with this kind of attitude. He says he doesn't want someone that is fake but I think he secretly does. Hello, Bullets!