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You go to work, slaving away at that desk all day. You won't get to go out to eat after dinner, you don't get to buy yourself new clothes even though you probably could use some. The only thing that keeps you going is the thought of coming home and handing your paycheck over to me. It doesn't matter if you have to eat beans and rice for the rest of your life as long as I get to maintain my luxurious lifestyle.
You thought you could love me in a million ways. You thought you could be special to me. But slowly, day by day, failure by failure, you realized the only value you held to me was your money. You didn't want your coworkers to find out about your disgusting perversions, so you paid me to keep them secret. You give me whatever I want, craving my my affection so desperately. But why on earth would I ever give it to you? You're a pathetic loser, and I'm a goddess. Why should I ever concern myself with your needs? You're only as good as your wallet, now pay me.