I hate that superior complex that you have. Those moments that you seem to try and dominate every aspect of my life. I hate that you don’t want to acknowledge my presence and worth when I need you to. Like I’m some object for your pleasing. You like it when I doll myself up and sit next to you while you talk your business friends, sometimes – most of the time – you parade me around in front of them like an object they can’t obtain. While I’m not an object, objects don’t have feelings and well mine are hurt.