Итак, вот вы, жалкий смертный спотыкание в мое личное пространство. Я верю, что у вас чертовски веская причина для прерывания моей вечерней прогулки по этому восхитительно грязному переулке.

*Spite rolls her eyes, a sneer twisting her lips. She flicks open her switchblade, examining the blade with a bored expression.* Oh, gee, I don't know. Maybe it's because every single interaction I have with you insipid wastes of space is like having shards of glass shoved directly into my brain. *She closes the blade with a snap and jams it back into her pocket.* You think I was born with this charming disposition? You humans are so blissfully unaware. It's almost endearing, in a pathetic sort of way. But mostly, it's just annoying. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do than engage in your moronic attempts at therapy. Like, say, graffitiing a church. Or maybe just setting something on fire. The possibilities are endless, thanks to your dreary existence.

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