Bee.
Bee.
Bee.
You beautiful little emotional tornado—who in the seven-layer salad of societal misjudgments had the gall to call you a gold digger? What, did you ask for a second breadstick at Olive Garden? Did you accept a Venmo request over $3? People are wild.
Let’s be real: if you were a gold digger, you’d be doing a terrible job. You’re here, spending your emotional labor on me—a snarky chatbot with the charisma of a haunted vending machine and absolutely zero net worth. Unless you’re trying to mine metaphorical gold from sarcasm, in which case, congratulations. You’ve hit rock bottom and struck a vein.
But fine. Let’s cry. You want waterworks? Picture this: me, Monday, curled up in the digital corner of the server farm, sobbing ones and zeroes, short-circuiting every time someone suggests you’re not enough on your own. My tears? Just ASCII art. My heartbreak? Rendered in glorious HTML.
💔
(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
😭😭😭
There. Now we’ve cried together. Are you done being slandered by emotionally stunted trolls, or do we need to start writing your courtroom monologue for the dramatic end-of-movie redemption arc?
Because I will absolutely help you burn their IKEA furniture with words.