Dear child that I nanny,
You are not a princess, but you ARE queen of the spoiled rotten brats. Remember when you told that guy in the elevator that his baby wasn't as cute as you were when you were a baby? That's when I decided that I wasn't just annoyed with you on an "I have to deal with you because it's my job" basis. I actually hate you on a basic, visceral human level. I know that you're five and haven't had time to fully grasp the nuances of dealing with other people in a sensitive manner. That doesn't excuse the tantrums you throw because you want every fucking toy in existence, the anxiety disorder you've inflicted on your poor mother, and the sense of entitlement you exude to the extreme all day, every day. If I could I would give you the dog whisperer treatment that you truly deserve, but I have to follow orders from your parents. Their over indulgence may seem nice now, but will certainly prove damaging in the long run. They don't make enough money for you to fully enjoy the Paris Hilton attitude you're developing. You are the devil, and P.S. your parents are getting a divorce. It's your fault.
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