first. voice.

[torrefied]

Sartre got it wrong. Hell is teenage girls.

Comments

[torrefied]

[There are many things Mello could say he is: genius, orphan, almost-successor to L's throne. A career criminal, and good at his work. The old world's runner-up. In the end, what he settles on is something deceptively simple, words coming out a touch on the stiff side.]

I'm an adult. Calling me a boy is disrespectful.

[wormintheglass]

But you disrespecting a swathe of the human population is fine?

[torrefied]

You people are increasingly tiresome.

[wormintheglass]

Dear child. When you're having problems with literally everyone you know?

I recommend you search for the common denominator in the equation.

[torrefied]

I don't have problems with everyone, actually, and you'd do well to refrain from making assumptions like that about me based on five minutes of inane conversation.

[wormintheglass]

And again we circle back to the beam in your own eye.

You started this, dearheart. With an inane, disrespectful assumption of your own. What did you expect would happen?

[torrefied]

Approximately what I've seen. I never tire of being proven right about people.

[wormintheglass]

I'm curious as to what you were actually attempting to prove.

[torrefied]

Well, for starters, I don't think anyone who's seen fit to open their mouths has actually read Sartre.