The way you beg is so unbecoming.

It's all about you, isn't it

You need this, you feel that, you want such, you demand blah blah blah...

All it ever is, is you, you, you.

Your world. Your pain. Your love. Your sorrow. Your smug vanity.

Your hypocritical sense of superiority being called into question.

Yet I, yes I, me and myself, Irene, don't give a flying, nor flightless, feck about how you feel, what you want, or where you are going.

Accept your fate, witch. The more I hear about you, the more I'd like to gag myself with a dirty sock, and since even I'm not allowed to harm myself, it doesn't mean I can't burn your works down on my way out.

I, yes I, not you, don't care anymore. So has it been written, so shall it be.

Crawl back to hell.

The way you beg is so unbecoming.