I’ll never love you the way I love your money. You really aren’t good for anything else. You’re a walking, talking ATM that dispenses cash as I please. In fact, I don’t even like you; I keep you around to fuck with financially. It’s fun to watch you squirm as I tease you, tormenting you with my mind and my body. You don’t matter to me, never have. Your relevance is tied directly to the amount of money in your bank account. The day that it runs out is the day that you cease to exist to me.