Out out, damned critic! Did you really think I would let this go on? Forever? You cracking your whip when you like, forcing me to dance like a puppet. You had to know.
That I would not keep you around forever. That I would expel you as fast as humanly possible for me. Yes. It took me awhile but I got here. I had a load of crap to wade through but I am on to you now.
Dissecting my every thought. Feeling. Action. Ready to pounce on me as a cat does a toy mouse.
Making me writhe under bright lights. Submitting to your version of police science.
Well, let me tell you, I have eyeballed you for some time now. Full on. How could I not be curious about you?
You, who would have me hurl myself through a window. You, who would have me throw myself off a cliff. You, who would have me drive a car into a rock face. You, for whom I would relinquish my struggle, cast off this life.
I must say that you have amazing research and analytical skills. Yes. That is a compliment.
Why would I ever heap accolades upon you?
I flatter you because you do good work. You know exactly what to say to me. How to chip away at my hull until your fingertips bleed. Until my tenuous foundation screeches under the burden and is soon all but gone.
You know there are several steps to the eviction appeal process. Like in the movie Pacific Heights, starring Michael Keaton, you know that during that time span, you get to stay on rent-free. Squatting on and smothering my every chance to know confidence. What it might feel like to embody it.
What a good gig you have! Pardon me. Did have.
Hear me now: you can no longer score in this game. The job to which you appointed yourself is now obsolete. I am finished with you. Done. Outta here!
I am no longer your tolerant, ever-appeasing host. Incidentally, she is moving out too, shoulder to shoulder with you.
Pout pout, deflated critic.