What happens in blue fake-pretend Russian Indian Venice stays in blue fake-pretend Russian Indian Venice: Saawariya
You...me...tonight...never happened. We don't know each other.
I'm not your type anyway. I need someone who makes me laugh, makes me think, makes me have an emotion other than staring wide-eyed and running in slow motion. You're too young for me, immature, too focused on appearances. You're full of tears and sacrifice, giddy dancing, content-free tittering. You suck all the joy and substance out of everything. You seem to want to save women with the jaunty flip of your hat (or dangle them off of high buildings or push them around), and that doesn't cut it with me.
Besides, your insistence on mooning over completely inappropriate people just makes me want to sit you down, mother-hen-like, and help you find someone more suitable - someone who likes forced, unsubstantiated romances and communicates via puppy-dog eyes.
But you've got some moves. And my stars, you're so beautiful. While we were together, I couldn't think about anything else. Sigh.
But I need more. It just isn't right.