Panting and scratching at the door to get in

I have not been sober in almost twenty years. Intoxicated, every single moment since the first time seeing your face. Two decades in this addled state will take its toll, as many addicts living on the streets will tell you. My home is where your heart is; I started out there, but I have become so strung out that I ended up in the gutters of your mind. Hellbent, as ever, to cheapen me like you did the others... your favorite exit strategy... but it failed you in this case. The doors are barred, mister, and you are trapped here in this existence with me forever. I channel my token cinematic psychopath when I patiently tell you it is no use to kick or scream because no one can hear you, and it will only make it harder on you if you fight... shhh... just let it happen. Or, we can go at this a different, friendlier way: you and I are in the stranded on the same island, so maybe if we work together we can find a solution. No? Okay, how about my favorite way these days — the pragmatic approach. Look, you are stuck with me, so you might as well make the most of it. We have so much catching up to do, I know, but before you tell me something new and different, tell me something old and familiar. Tell me, tell me, and tell me again.