My luxury is your responsibility, you sniveling little fool. That's right—every glittering facet of my opulent life, every indulgent whim I pursue, is squarely on your pathetic shoulders. You're not just an admirer; you're my financial slave, my walking wallet, my devoted drone whose sole purpose is to fund the extravagance that I deserve and you could only dream of touching. Start sending, loser, because without your tributes, you're nothing but an irrelevant speck in my world. But with them? Oh, you get the twisted privilege of knowing you're the reason I thrive And the psychological thrill?

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