When you get that I don’t need any fucking pity from you, when you get that I don’t actually need anything at all, not from you, not from anyone, you can come call me whatever the fuck you like.
You can brag about what you know about me, you can spill and vomit all my life details; but until you actually DO get to that point, you’re going to have to work a lot because there’s actually no one on this planet who knows me completely.
You can spend as much fucking money you want on me.
Money can’t buy me love.
Money can’t buy you shit.
Money can only make me sniff coke easier.

So you know what?
Fuck you.