typeracer

I carried you in here. I fed you, I weaned you, now look at you. You always were an ungrateful, wretched, sniveling boy! You know it, and I know it! There was always something wrong with you. Ashamed of yourself. Ashamed of me, of your own mother! I've been here for hours, and have you gotten me a drink? Or a cigarette? Or massaged my feet? I'm an old woman and you, in the prime of life! Have you nothing inside?