Insults do not hurt a woman who spends her time building walls—not fragile walls, not walls of fear, but walls forged from experience, patience, and iron resolve.

These walls are not meant to cage me; they are meant to shield me, to protect the spaces that are mine alone. To penetrate them requires more than words, more than empty threats, more than the shallow venom of a lapdog.

And you, honey… you are just that. A lapdog, kneeling at my mercy, begging for entrance you have neither earned nor deserved. You tremble in the shadow of my patience, and yet, you call it weakness.

Do not mistake my restraint for fragility. Do not assume that my silence is submission. I hear your whispers. I see your attempts. I feel your claws scratching at the gates, but you will not pass.

I do not welcome dog-biting attitudes, pawing, snapping insults, or claws of envy. I do not bend for theatrics. I do not bend for attention. My walls are high, my ground is firm, my gaze unflinching.

Every insult you lob at me, every mockery you think sharp, ricochets back to you, hollow and impotent. It is a noise in the wind, a shadow on stone. You have nothing to pierce me.

And yet, you persist. You think kneeling and whining, whining for recognition or forgiveness or entry, is cleverness. Sweetheart, cleverness is earned. Respect is earned. Not begged. Not begged from walls you cannot scale.

I have lived long enough to know the value of patience. I have fought long enough to know the power of restraint. And I have built long enough to know that those who try to tear walls down with words alone are already lost.

You do not frighten me. You do not tempt me. You do not matter beyond the amusement of observing your futile struggles. Your insults, like your ego, are a paper-thin veil over the hollowness you carry.

Every attempt to claw inside, every feeble growl of indignation, reminds me of the distance you must travel, the depth of strength you lack. I am not your playground. I am not your spectacle. I am not your conquest.

Do you feel clever when you bite, when you bark, when you think your words could wound? You mistake your venom for power. You mistake your envy for influence. You mistake your begging for strategy.

But walls do not bend for fools. Gates do not open for pawns. Respect is not purchased with groveling, nor loyalty won with empty snarls. And you, poor creature, have brought none of these.

Every hiss, every half-hearted barb, every shadow of a threat—insignificant. I sip my patience as you flounder. I count the steps of your climb, knowing full well that the summit is unreachable.

The strength of a woman is not in submission. It is not in rage alone. It is in knowing her ground, in holding her boundaries, in standing unbroken while others writhe in desire for access.

And I, standing behind walls built of foresight and courage, watch you tremble at the gates you were never meant to cross. You are not my equal. You are not my threat. You are merely noise in my ordered world.

Do you feel the sting of your own impotence? That even your insults, aimed with intent to harm, land as nothing but feathers against armor? That even your hunger, your desire to breach, is impotent against the fortresses of self?

You are here, begging, groveling, offering allegiance and venom alike. And yet, I remain unmoved, serene, untouchable in my domain. You are small. I am infinite.

Dog-biting attitudes have no place here. Insults are irrelevant. Your shadow cannot darken my sun. Your growls cannot crack my foundation. And your pleas cannot compel me to lower my gates.

I am the keeper of my own walls, the architect of my own strength, the sovereign of my own domain. And you, kneeling, begging, whining—you are merely a spectator, caught in the gravity of my power.

Insults do not hurt me. Venom does not sway me. Begging does not bend me. You are here, yet invisible. You are loud, yet unheard. And the irony is exquisite, the lesson inevitable: strength cannot be bargained with, walls cannot be breached by folly, and mercy is never owed.