sorry for not being able to be the perfect girl you want me to be.
i'm tired of trying to make you happy.
you will never be happy.
not with me, not with anybody else.
you're too busy to think about yourself and your reputation to even think of someone other than you.
i'm sick of your lies, sick of your endless complaints.
nothing will ever be perfect in your eyes, except you.
maybe you should marry yourself.
it must turn you on every time you look at the mirror, doesn't it?
fuck you, biatch!