A monologue.

"Oh great. Good job. Are you as impressed with yourself as I am with you? Are you proud? Do you feel accomplished? Feel like you've done something meaningful with your life? Like you have a purpose, a reason for being, a cause? Do you love that feeling you get, so much, that you must keep doing it and doing it and doing it--infinitely prolonged? Will this gain you the approval you so desperately seek: From everyone? From the ones you love? From me? Will this gain you the respect, the fear, from those: You hate? You don't even know?  When you lay in bed, do you think, "I deserve this sleep," or, "I deserve to sleep forever."? Because, if you ask me, not that you ever would, I think it should be the latter. Harsh? Yes, but fair. I wouldn't expect much more from you, so why should I fight the law of diminishing returns? You'll never know, anyway, anything. If you were wise, you would have timed this better. Most people don't crack eggs when they're right above their own head. You certainly proved them right, didn't you? Didn't you? I'd tell you you shouldn't show your face around here anymore, but it's not like you can leave, is it? You're stuck. Good fucking job. You didn't only bite the hand that fed you, you bit it clean off, and swallowed it, and digested it, and shat it out. You just don't know when you stop. You'll never stop, you can't stop. The truth is, I feel bad for you, even though I shouldn't. I should feel vindicated, pleased. I should wallow in your self-pity, but I can't. Isn't that a shame? I bet you'd feel better if I could take pleasure in your pain, but I can't. I just can't. Isn't that pathetic? Well, not as pathetic as you, but that would be difficult to do, anyway. You're worthless, really. Nothing you'll ever do will ever amount to anything. You're stuck in Limbo and you haven't even died yet. You've been reincarnated as a lesser being and you haven't even died yet. You're dead, and you haven't even died yet. I could say that you're the worst person I've ever met, but you're worse than that, because you're not actually the worst person I've ever met. I've met much worse people than you, but it's almost as if you want to be the worst, but you just don't have the cunning to achieve it. You're like a record player with a shitty record spinning round and round, but the needle isn't even on it. You're just mass. You're a weight dragging behind everybody's ship, slowing them down, making them less maneuverable. Other people aren't here to drag you through life, you've got to pick up your own shit and live your own life. ... I'm done. You're done. We're done. Again, I'd tell you to leave and never come back, but you can't, can you? You're like a prisoner who set his own cell on fire. Yeah, you always liked to talk about how fucking wise you are. Well, how wise of you was that? How fucking wise of you was it to throw stones in your own glass house? I'm done. I'm just. Done."
-TQW 2010