Jason didn't know what you really, really wanted, because you kept asking him what he thought you really, really wanted without actually telling him what you really, really wanted. When he realised it was because of the hit song Wannabe by the Spice Girls, he tried to smash his head into a wall and down a bottle of vodka and kiss you simultaeneously.

He had never met someone as frustrating and real as you. He had enough problems, and watching you in that miniskirt and those go-go boots on the dance floor was not helping. It added a copious number of problems to the ever-growing list, actually. It was insufferable.

He was annoyingly and irritatingly and entirely in love with you, and you were lipsyncing a goddamned Fergie song while eyeing a boy that you had never met before because he was never going to muster up the courage to tell you.

It was worse than dying. Truth be told, it was like dying all over ─ except it had a Y2K girls dream soundtrack, now. He liked Rihanna as much as the next white girl, but he wanted it to be him dancing with you. Not a boy without a name and pretty brown eyes.

Not that he was going to do anything about his problem. He'd stand in the corner, gorilla glued to his beer, and watch you through the corner of his eye. Verbal confrontation was a tragic thing that only Bruce had tugged out of him.