Every day, it was praise. There's a point where you boil in bliss too long that you forget how it feels. It becomes ordinary. You start to resent it for its ordinariness. The tale of my life. The evil clean in her tower of adoration, staring down at those who can't have what she does; what she +

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doesn't even want anymore. Real love. Real care. Real safety. The queen simply takes all the love she can, all the attention, all the compliments and bedroom eyes from anyone she can have. Surely, if she sinks into the ocean, she can find one drop of honey. Surely there's a pearl deep down in the +

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depths; all she has to do is go deep enough. It's just math. It's just programming. Type enough numbers and you'll reach the one that solves everything. Queen, programmer, drowning yearner... what was the analogy again? Boiling in love long enough makes it worthy of resent. If love is terrible, +

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common, then what is hate? What is it to revile something, to despise, to truly focus your entire being on the pain of another? Is that something sweet? The queen's castle crumbles. She embraces the sword of the prince. She kisses the blade that ends her reign until she bleeds out through her +

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lips. The death of bliss, the death of boredom. But then, is that really love? In an ocean of comfort, perhaps the real pearl is agony. To be flayed by one who can only think of her demise is the queen's happily ever after. The end of bliss. The end of boredom. Loving hatred. Comforting pain.

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