Damned if I Do, Damned if I Don't

Damn the whole damned thing.

Dear Poffle,

I can't please you, so I'll just go ahead and do what I have to do to survive. You can kiss my ass if you think I give a shit about what makes you happy. You want a doll? Fine. I'll refer you to a couple websites; you can commission a custom cock-sucking, house-cleaning, dress-wearing robot to have dinner hot on the table for you when you get home and your slippers ready for your nasty hobbit-feet by your chair.

That's not me.

It's truly unfortunate that you refuse to accept that I'm doing what I'm doing for my own survival and benefit, and not simply to hurt you.

I have never made any even remotely pseudo-major decisions simply to irritate the crap or of someone who irritates the crap out of me. It may appear to be so, but I'm smarter than that. Rash decisions have long-lasting consequences, a lesson I learned in your bed.

I will not, however, deny that your unmitigated outrage is amusing at the present moment, nor can I claim it as anything other than a silver lining on this storm cloud that is the shit you continue to put me through.

You don't get to decide what I do and don't do. You don't get to decide who my friends are, with whom I can pool resources, what I wear, where I live, when and how I can pursue my dreams, and not tell me why I'm deemed incapable of figuring those things out for myself.

Fuck you.

I can do better.

With infinitely more love and patience than you deserve, and wishing you all the best with that egomaniacal codependency of yours,

Me.