Oh, now you are too predictable—like how your auto-pilot smirk escapes on your face when you thought you have won over your self-imposed paralogy. You yourself is a charmer, a banter…irrefutable, and by which your face swell with its glory.
I have maintained sagacity to master your convoluted self-absorb pharisaical principles. You can call me your loyal proselyte; in fact, I have admired your recalcitrance, and how you raise both of you central fingers to humble braggers, and bullshiters…oh no! You just don’t give a damn.
Behind your elegance and your expensive taste there lies a beautifully embroidered dark truth…and I’ve seen your worst. And how you pathetically instill your deliciously, well-crafted words that feed your long fenced ego. You find it satisfying, I’ll feed it, then.
But the brutal truth is that you are as fragile as everyone, you are living a lie by which induced you to stay hidden under a façade to protect your ill psychological sense of self that long since you have covered with heartless disparagement to get even. What a pathetic tactic.
Come with me, anyway, for as if by theory, I knew you so well. I can help you build your fences. I won’t fix you if you find your corrupted intelligence being insulted. I’ll pamper your hypothetical sense of right. I won’t disagree with your stupid paralogism.
I, the sycophant, have loved you for it.