Scampi: You, Peter, have never read anything by Gumilev. You are like a nightmare that takes place on Gladstone Avenue in a foreign language.
Peter: I am in the bath. I am taking no note of this invective.
Scampi: You are like a girl sitting outside a butcher shop in September wishing she wasn’t too mad to cry. Except the opposite.
Peter: Sometimes, you don’t make any sense at all. When this happens, I prefer to absent myself.
Scampi: You sellout piece of shit.
Peter: I’m not listening.
Scampi: Due to hearsay, I am aware that Gumilev also wrote a poem about a giraffe. You’ll never guess what it’s called.
Peter: I hate guessing.
Scampi: This is because you are a sore loser.
PETER IS NOT LISTENING.
Scampi: People with inflated notions of themselves that do not appropriately correspond to materiel/other success are often sore losers. This is a fact.
Peter: Oh really?
Scampi: Yes. It is in the dictionary.
Peter: Which one?
Scampi: You have never seen a dictionary, and wouldn’t know anything about it.
Peter: I give up.
Scampi: Don’t think I mistake the flint in your voice for something [exhaustion/depression/general irritable nature] else. Everyone gives up on me.
Peter: It’s hard to imagine why.
Scampi: I believe that people give up on me due to your lack of imagination.
Peter: [THIS PORTION OF WHAT PETER BELIEVES HAS BEEN CENSORED BECAUSE IT IS TOO BLEAK. IT IS AS BLEAK AS A HOUSE]
Scampi: Maybe you don’t absorb enough vitamin C.
Peter: Sometimes, I wish I had never met you.
Scampi: So what.
Peter: Stop mis-hearing me.
Scampi: I know what you meant.
Peter: I just pointed out that it’s past your normal bedtime. You’re tired.
Scampi: I hate you.
Peter: Don’t talk to me like that.
Scampi: I hate fighting with you.
Peter: You need to calm down.
Scampi: How come your eyes are every single colour?
Peter: They’re hazel.
Peter: We should spend less time together.
Scampi: Someday, there will be no Peter, and no Scampi, and we won’t have a choice.