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You're completely obsessed with bratty, entitled Princesses like me, aren't you loser? You get off on how comfortable I am with my superiority over nobodies like you - how I look down on you so naturally. You love how I've weaponized my pretty-privilege to rinse whatever I want from you, how I manipulate you with nothing more than an eye-roll or a curl of my lip. The bitchier I act, the harder you simp for me, the more cash you literally spunk-up just to be treated like the trash you are. You adore watching girls half your age flaunt our glam lifestyles you'll never get to enjoy for yourself, wearing designer shit you couldn't ever afford to buy yourself, posing with our expensive bags and posting from the latest viral club, bar or restaurant to be seen at - all of it bankrolled by pathetic rejects like you who worship beautiful girls with spiteful, uncaring attitudes. Funded by inferiors like you who know you'd never be worthy of our actual attention.

This is the reality of being a brat-worshiping failure like you, bitch: drooling over me in some overpriced coffee shop, literally leaking at the sight of me as I walk in, and then I catch you staring like the obsessed little simpytard you are. Obviously I'd make you pay for my order, clicking my fingers at you and making you tap your card before letting you follow me to my table just to get your first does of public humiliation from the kinda brat you just love to sub to. I'd snap my pretty fingers and point under the table, ordering you down on your knees to lick the soles of my Balenciaga sneakers clean while I enjoy my frappe and text my girlfriends. You'd be licking actual coffee-shop floor-dirt from the soles while I lounge above you like total fucking royalty, and you'd better thank me for it to, you grovelly little peasant! You'd show gratitude for my bratitude, loser, because you know your place. You know brats are your betters. You know girls like me get whatever the fuck we want and treat simps like you as nothing more than accessories. True story: we rock the latest iPhone, Chanel earrings, Gucci belt, Prada bag, and some weak bitch to bully, humiliate, and cover the bill. That's all you are to me, an accessory - not a person - just a fucking ‘thing'!

Don't ever fool yourself into thinking you're anything more than that, loser. You'll never be anything but someone I treat like absolute trash and make pay for the privilege, and you wouldn't change a single thing, would you? Because that's exactly what you love about me. That's why you worship me. You mean absolutely nothing to me, I don't care about your feelings, your wellbeing, or your pathetic existence. I only care about what you can buy me and what you can do for me. So if you want that pathetic little humpy-reward, bitch, you need to show me gratitude for my bratitude every single fucking day. Paying me to be cruel to you is the only way you earn permission to stroke that little thing to mean-girl brattiness. Going broke just for insults and put-downs. Getting rinsed for my ridicule. That's the only way you get your humpy-reward, loser. And you want that permission so badly, don't-cha loser? You want to be my good boy and cum for me so much... then show me some fucking gratitude. If it's enough, maybe I'll allow you to jerk to my bratitude. Maybe...