An Aside, with Venom
I’m amazed at the capacity of some to so fully indulge their excuses for vileness that they profane against those they claim to love. They don’t know love; yet they would destroy in its name.
You’ve given yourself the excuse of a broken heart as an armor, and, really, I don’t care anymore. Against what does this armor guard? I want to call you a [expletive deleted], but what I have to mete out requires more breadth and depth.
Consider: the lives you would corrupt through the illusory depravity to which you clutch only respond by loving you that much more. I’m sure it baffles you utterly. When no one else wants you, those you injure most only open their arms wider.
Your armor of “pain” keeps from you nothing but the quietly remarkable reality all around you. You define yourself through melodrama and pity, and the mask of self-loathing—when it suits you to wear it. You model yourself after the great tortured souls who are worshipped for their cliché and not their substance. You aspire to greatness by mimicking despair, and so find it delightfully convenient when others fuel your delusion.
Your greatest fear is that someone should see through your veil of sturm und drang to see that average, empty woman you’ve become. Here’s some news: we all do. Your constant meager trolling for pity and attention only more greatly clarify just how undeserving of our pity you are.
You, the great spy, Machiavelli in heels, have managed to fool only yourself.
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