I'm finished.

I HATE WAITING.
AND, BY ASSOCIATION, I HATE YOU FOR MAKING ME WAIT.

For months, I've been suspended in this thick, disgusting state of perpetual anticipation.
AND I'M SICK OF IT.

Why not just TELL ME whether I'm good enough or not?!?
I CAN TAKE IT. I JUST DON'T WANT TO WAIT ANY LONGER, BECAUSE IF I DO, I MAY VERY WELL UNDERGO SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION.
I'm finished compulsively checking my mailbox and e-mail, waiting for the day when I know I'll see your correspondence.
STOP playing with me.
I'm not your puppet, and you are not the Supreme, All-Encompassing Power you think you are just because you can dangle the possibility of success over my head.
I'M SEVENTEEN, FOR GOODNESS' SAKE.
AND I'VE HAD IT.

DO YOU FEEL GOOD ABOUT YOURSELF?
DO YOU GET SOME TWISTED PLEASURE WATCHING ME EXHAUST MYSELF LIKE THIS?

Whatever.
You know what?
I'm finished.
Though I may not have your approval, you aren't going to take my dignity (or sanity, for that matter).
I won't humiliate myself jumping through hoops for you.
Not anymore.