The greatest love story I know is
Harley Quinn and the Joker.
They pick each other again and again and again.

No matter how violent or volatile or unhealthy,
they keep slowly killing each other.

We are all slowly dying anyway, so why not
have great sex and inside jokes along the way.

He hates me, you know?

Truly wishes I was dead. I think if he could,
he’d steal a move from the Joker and
push me off a building.

I’m not as smart as Harley Quinn,
but I know enough to know
that her and I are just ignoring the signs
until love kills us.

Ever known anyone truly in love with himself?
I have. It’s maddening.
The lies. The secrets. The cruelty.
It’s like being in love with a cranky toddler
who blames you for everything that goes wrong.

When white trash love story meets upper class meets
comic bad guys romance. That’s us.
So insanely happy.
So content to just kill each other.

They say Harley was crazier than the Joker,
she pushed harder and faster and was more reckless.
Maybe that’s why I love her so much.
Because to love someone who’s crazy,
you have to be crazier than they are just to survive.