a pocketful of secrets I know you're never telling anyone

Math may as well swap the 'a' for a 'y' and deem itself myth for all the sense it makes to me. Be it arithmetic or calculus, I can be relied upon to produce a wrong answer nearly every time a numerical problem rears its ugly head, scientific calculators and cheat-sheets notwithstanding. So yes, perhaps my chances of figuring out the answers are slim even when given the appropriate formula to follow, but I would still sell my soul to get my hands on the logarithm to solve for whether a message from you means a response is desired. Give me a hint? Anything preceding or past a certain hour, anything within or beyond three incoming bubbles, anything containing or lacking more than one set of ellipses, anything starting or ending with certain subsets of words such as "help," "feel," "fucking," "wish," "stop," or "sorry." If only I could plug these pretexts into a program built to spit out the right choice to make... but then maybe the torture of indecision is half the point of posing the implied question. I know how it goes — I love you so much that I want you to suffer for it. And suffer I do, but I am a masochist, so my kind of joke is ultimately on you.