Three times. That's how many times you broke up with me, Clark--in three weeks

[Technically, one of those was her, actually. Lois does not care about technicalities.]

Next thing I know, you're kissing me goodbye and incidentally springing a secret identity on me, and you have a knife in your chest. Then we're in fucking Canada, and twenty four hours later you're telling me you're probably dead and you're in love with me, and that you want to spend your life with me, never mind that you might not have one anymore--

And you expect things to just magically be perfectly fine?