One of the worst things about being in Loserville is, there are so few permanent residents. You live right along the highway of life. Things go by on the highway. Both good and bad. The occasional person stops as they drive through on their way somewhere. You might get the odd person coming into town. Metaphorically speaking, stopping for a Pepsi and a piss in your hovel-like little abode on the side of life’s freeway. But the necessities of life taken care of, they get back in their Porsche, and press the pedal to the floor, speeding away from you, and your pathetic existence in Loserville.

To put it in more vivid terms:

I’m the bloody Chamberlain of relationships.