Understanding you is not, contrary to your incessant belief, the sole purpose of my existence. You are whatever you are, while I, without pause, accept this. If I were to assume a constant analysis of you and the things you do as my pre-ordained purpose for existing, I would as soon take the sharpest of razors and pass it with pleasure one-eighth inch deep across my gullible throat.
Your vanity exhausts me. Is there not a moment within any given day wherein your every waking thought is directed toward anything, or anyone, other than yourself? If not, then tell me, do you ever grow weary of unceasingly caressing the image of yourself, as even lust-crazed men tire of their indiscriminate seductions of faceless women? Don’t you ever lie spent after a consuming bout of self-adoration?
Here, then, is my ardent hope and prayer for you: May you love yourself only to the measure that others may, perchance, find in the smoldering remnants of your self-delight a crumb or two left over upon which to nourish their love for you as well.

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