“Anyway, we don’t have much in common. For example, you hate strawberry ice cream- I think it’s the best thing in the world; you like Bash- I don’t; you don’t like loud music- I do; you hate pulp- I love it; you can’t sing or dance to save your life- I can. The list can go on and on,” he told me, earning a glare in response.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Strawberry ice cream is absolutely nauseating. And I like Bash as a friend, so what? He’s a nice guy. I do like loud music- it just has to be good music. Pulp is disgusting; it's scientifically proven. And so what if I can’t dance or sing? You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
He shook his head in disappointment. “So what you’re saying is…I have a bad taste in music?”
I snorted. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“But you don’t like my lou
