A/N: Danielle, I am so sorry. When I last told you I was working on this, I was about halfway done with this chapter (which was completely different) and then my desktop crashed and I lost it.

"You hate me, don't you?" John asked, sitting in the living room of Danielle and Brittany's apartment.

"Hate is a bit of a strong word, John. Don't you think?" Danielle muttered, distracting herself by looking at her cuticles. "Damn, I need a manicure."

"I'm sorry," John sighed.

"Sorry doesn't cut it."

"But how many times have I apologized?"

"Sorry is just a word. Words have no true value," Danielle solemnly stated, bringing her hand closer to her face and squinting her eyes. "Ew! I have a hangnail!"

"But didn't you just say that hate is a strong word? It would have meaning then, wouldn't it?"

"Wow, John, I am shocked. For once, your pea-sized brain has actually outdone your goldfish memory. Excellent."

"I'll do you one better," John said, reaching into his pocket.

"Oh, you've already done me a couple…" Danielle sighed.

"Look, you'll get over it if you just come back with me like I know you want to," John said, unfolding the piece of paper he carried around with him. "But on another note…What the hell was up with this?" He held up the list he had made.

"That was the most retarded list of questions I have ever read in my life," Danielle flatly said, her eyes darkening. "Like, who cares what font I prefer to type with on the computer?"

"Maybe I was going to make you a sign…" John whispered.

"Oh! How about I make you a sign? But surely you're used to it already. But maybe all of the signs saying 'Marry Me Cena' made by underage children aren't enough for you. Don't you feel like a pedophile?"

"That's a bit extreme."

"Extreme? You want extreme? Well, my sign would have a picture of you with a caption that read 'World's Biggest Douchebag.' And do you know where I'd put it? EVERYWHERE! Like that episode of Viva La Bam when it was Don't Feed Phil Day. You can be rest assured that I would put billboards of your likeness all over the place, telling everyone how much of a jackass you are. I think I might even rent out that giant screen in Times Square. Let's see how many fans you have then. I'm sure the marks would love it," Danielle ranted.

"You said you'd want to let me die in the ocean," John whined, pointing at number eleven on the list.

"Men! You guys exaggerate way too much. But here you are, John Cena, making everything about you. Nowhere in that question was the name 'John' or 'Cena' mentioned."

"But I assumed it was implied."

"Do you want to die in the ocean? I can arrange that."

"I just wanted to get to know you better!" John said, defending his reason for making that pathetic list once again.

"How long were we together? I think you know me well enough! Especially well enough to know that if you don't shut your fat trap, I am going to instantly start the last part of my answer to number two!"

John looked at the list, reading number two out loud. "What is Danielle's favorite number? One: the number of brain cells you have, the number of torn pecs you've suffered, and the number of balls you're going to have…Oh, I get it."

"Are you sure? Or do I need to explain it to you? Sorry, Johnny, but you've never quite been the brightest crayon in the box."

"Gettin' born in the state of Mississippi. Poppa was a coppa and the momma was a hippie," Chris Jericho sang with the utmost enthusiasm, even swinging his free arm around for added emphasis. He had brought over Rock Band so he and Brit could occupy their time while John and Danielle spoke or killed each other. No, Chris couldn't play the bass or guitar. Those were too quiet for him. Not even the drums, which made the most noise, were good enough for him. He had to sing, mainly so he could be as obnoxious as he could.

Brittany didn't want to join in the festivities. She watched in horror as her boyfriend jumped on her bed, singing at the top of his lungs. It was when he got to the chorus of "Dani California" that she had to say something. "Christopher! We are in an apartment! You cannot scream at the top of your lungs!"

Did Chris listen? Of course not.

"Brit, what did you do with the knives?" Danielle asked, running into the room.

"Huh?" Brittany couldn't hear her question over Chris's raucous singing.

"Where did you put the knives?!" Danielle repeated.

"I hid them because I didn't trust you knowing their location with John here!" Brittany hollered back.

"THANKS FOR THE THOUGHT, BRIT!" John yelled from the living room, having heard Brittany's answer.

"I wanted to cut cheese for the crackers but I can't since you hid the knives!"

"Oh well."