I have a primal, visceral terror that if you stop thinking of me, I will stop existing. I’ve developed a coping strategy for this: it involves an elaborate management of times when I know you won’t be thinking of me. In certain circumstances, then, I can tolerate not being thought of by you.
The only thing worse for me than not being thought of by you is your affirmatively demonstrating to me that you’re not thinking of me. Or that, if you’re thinking of me, you’re not thinking of me as I want you to. Or, that if you’re thinking of me, you’re also thinking about other people/things.
Don’t. Fucking. Do. That.
(inspired by real events involving Marina, but generally applicable)