Whining as Weapon: How Female Narcissists Manipulate with Emotional Complaints

Some people complain because they are stressed, tired, or genuinely overwhelmed. Then there is a different category altogether: the woman who seems to turn every minor inconvenience into a full‑blown emotional event. Her sighs are dramatic, her voice trembles on cue, and somehow every conversation seems to circle back to how hard her life is. If you walk away from these interactions feeling guilty, confused, or oddly responsible for her mood, you may not be dealing with everyday venting—you may be watching a female narcissist using whining as a weapon.

This kind of chronic, performative distress is not about problem‑solving; it is about power. The female narcissist has learned that tears, complaints, and fragile body language can do things that direct aggression never could: soften boundaries, erase consequences, and keep other people orbiting around her emotional weather report. She is not just upset; she is curating an atmosphere where you feel obligated to fix, soothe, and rescue. Over time, this pattern can drain your energy, warp your sense of reality, and make it dangerously easy to excuse her worst behavior because she always seems to be “going through something.”

The tricky part is that from the outside, she may look like the exact opposite of a manipulator. She can present as shy, anxious, overwhelmed, or even deeply spiritual and self‑aware. She may talk about trauma, healing, and mental health with impressive vocabulary. But pay attention to the emotional math: do you always end up giving more than you get? Do her crises seem to flare up most intensely when you are about to set a boundary, say no, or hold her accountable? When whining becomes a pattern instead of an occasional release valve, you are no longer looking at simple vulnerability—you are looking at a strategy.

Drama Queens, Whining Tactics, and the Performance of Distress

Think of the female narcissist as a director, producer, and lead actress all rolled into one. The script is always the same: she is the misunderstood heroine, the world is against her, and everyone else has a duty to show support. Whining is one of her favorite props. It softens the edges of her entitlement and makes her demands look like pleas for mercy instead of commands. To outsiders, it can even look like humility or insecurity. To the people closest to her, it slowly feels like a never‑ending emotional tax.

Ordinary whining usually has an endpoint: the person vents, receives empathy or advice, and then either takes action or accepts the situation. With the female narcissist, there is no landing. The complaints are recycled across weeks, months, and even years, with new scenery but the same theme: “Look what life keeps doing to me.” She is not seeking resolution; she is seeking reinforcement. The more often you step into the role of comforter, defender, or fixer, the more locked into the story you become. If you ever pull back, she does not see it as a normal fluctuation in support. She sees it as betrayal.

This is where the performance of distress becomes especially powerful. She may use a soft voice, trembling lip, or carefully timed silence to signal that she is hanging by a thread. She may frame her experiences in dramatic language—“Everyone is against me,” “Nothing ever works out,” “I can’t trust anyone”—even when the objective facts do not match the story. The goal is not accuracy. The goal is emotional impact. If you are a naturally empathetic person, you are exactly the audience she is looking for.

Over time, friends, partners, and coworkers may start adjusting their own behavior to avoid “triggering” another episode of despair. Jokes get toned down. Honest feedback gets watered into half‑truths. People tiptoe around her moods the way you might tiptoe past a sleeping baby—except this “baby” is actually the most powerful person in the room, and her fragility is the reason everyone else feels responsible for maintaining peace.

The Psychological Stage: Why Female Narcissists Whine

To understand why whining is such a favorite tool, you have to understand how narcissism works beneath the surface. Narcissism is not just about arrogance or vanity; it is often rooted in a fragile, unstable sense of self. Underneath the grandiosity and “main character energy” is a person who feels easily rejected, easily offended, and constantly at risk of being exposed as not special enough. Whining offers a workaround. If she can frame herself as the victim instead of the villain, she never has to face that inner insecurity directly.

Complaints serve two psychological functions for the female narcissist. First, they give her a steady stream of validation. If she can keep you feeling worried, guilty, or protective, she knows you are still invested. Second, they help her side‑step accountability. It is very difficult to confront someone or call out their behavior when they are already collapsed in a story of how hard everything is for them. By the time you work up the courage to address the real issue, you are back to listening to another monologue about how exhausted, overwhelmed, or misunderstood she feels.

There is also a gendered layer to this behavior. Many female narcissists learn early on that obvious aggression is frowned upon but vulnerability is rewarded. They discover that being loud, confrontational, or domineering gets them labeled as “difficult,” but being fragile, overwhelmed, and perpetually wronged gets them sympathy and protection. So instead of shouting demands, they sigh them. Instead of openly insisting on special treatment, they hint at how “no one ever helps” them. The entitlement is the same; the packaging is softer.

In this way, whining becomes a kind of emotional camouflage. On the surface, she looks like someone who is barely holding herself together. Underneath, she is managing multiple narratives at once: who is on her side, who needs to be guilt‑tripped, and who can be counted on to drop everything when she starts spiraling. This is not to say that she never feels real sadness or stress. The danger lies in the way those feelings are weaponized and recycled, always pointing outward toward what others are doing wrong, instead of inward toward what she needs to change.

Real‑World Illustration: The ‘Damsel in Distress’ Routine in Action

Imagine Tara, a bright, charismatic woman on a project team. On paper, she is fully capable. She has the skills, the experience, and the role to match. But the moment anything goes slightly off‑script—a deadline moves up, a client asks for edits, a coworker offers constructive feedback—Tara’s energy changes. Her shoulders slump. She lets out long, theatrical sighs. She stares at her screen, eyes glassy, as if the entire weight of the company has been placed squarely on her back.

At first, coworkers rush in with good intentions. Someone offers to help with her slides. Another teammate volunteers to handle the tough email. The manager softens his tone, reassuring Tara that “it’s not that serious” and “we’re all here to support you.” Tara nods gratefully, maybe even makes a self‑deprecating joke about being “too sensitive,” and the crisis appears to pass. Everyone walks away feeling like they did the compassionate thing.

But then it happens again. And again. Soon, the pattern is undeniable: every time Tara is held to a standard, the damsel routine comes out. She is never outright rude. She does not yell, curse, or openly refuse assignments. Instead, she melts. Her complaints are soft but relentless. “No one understands how much I have on my plate.” “Everyone else seems to handle this better than I do.” “I feel like I’m always the one taking the hit.” The more she says it, the more the team starts to treat her like she really is made of glass.

The result? Deadlines shift around her. Others quietly absorb her workload. The manager begins assigning her only the tasks she prefers, not the ones the project actually needs. Anyone who dares push back risks being painted as cold or unsupportive. If a coworker privately says, “We are all stressed, you are not the only one,” Tara may tear up or go silent, later hinting to others that she feels “targeted” or “picked on.” Now the would‑be truth‑teller is the problem, and Tara’s role as the fragile centerpiece of the team is secure.

This is the “damsel in distress” routine updated for modern workplaces and social circles. It is not a helpless woman waiting for a prince; it is a narcissistic woman leveraging performative helplessness to dodge responsibility and keep everyone emotionally indebted. If you have ever found yourself doing extra work, changing your schedule, or censoring your own feelings so that one adult woman does not fall apart again, you may have already met your own version of Tara.

Strategic Sighs and Whimpering: Subtlety as Manipulation

Not all emotional manipulation arrives as a full crying jag or dramatic meltdown. Some of the most powerful tactics are almost quiet enough to miss. Strategic sighs, tiny whimpers under the breath, long pauses before answering a simple question—these are the soft‑focus tools of the female narcissist who prefers to control the room without ever raising her voice. On the surface, she might seem merely “sensitive” or “easily overwhelmed.” In practice, she is running a very specific script designed to make other people lean in, ask questions, and start managing her emotions for her.

Picture a group of friends getting ready for a night out. Plans have been set for days, everyone is excited, and then one woman begins to subtly deflate the mood. She sighs when someone mentions the restaurant, makes a half‑hearted joke about nothing ever going right, then goes quiet. When someone asks, “What’s wrong?” she waves it off—at first. It takes two or three more invitations for her to “open up,” and by the time she finally does, the entire evening has shifted into a discussion of her stress, her ex, her job, her latest conflict. The whining is soft, but the effect is massive: the group’s energy is no longer about shared fun; it is about stabilizing her.

In work settings, these subtler tactics show up as background noise that slowly takes center stage. You might hear quiet muttering at a desk, a dramatic chair slump in every meeting, or a co‑worker who always looks on the verge of tears when assignments are handed out. The behavior rarely crosses a clear HR line, which makes it hard to address directly. Instead, colleagues adapt. They volunteer to take the tougher tasks so she does not “fall apart.” They sugarcoat feedback because they have seen how she reacts when she feels “attacked.” Over months or years, the entire environment subtly reorganizes around the goal of not upsetting her again.

This is the genius of low‑volume manipulation: it trains people without them realizing they are being trained. When every sigh leads to extra reassurance and every whimper earns a change in plans, those around the narcissist are conditioned to spot the earliest signs of distress and rush in with emotional first aid. Eventually, the narcissist does not have to make explicit demands at all. Her discontent becomes enough to move schedules, soften consequences, and bend rules in her favor.

Weaponized Tears and the Calculus of Vulnerability

Then there are the tears. Most people cry when they feel flooded, heartbroken, or deeply moved. For the female narcissist, crying can serve another purpose entirely: it becomes a shortcut out of accountability and a fast‑track back into the safety of the victim role. The timing is rarely random. The tears often arrive at the exact moment someone is confronting her, holding a boundary, or calmly explaining how her behavior has affected them.

Imagine a romantic partner who finally sits down and says, “I feel ignored when you cancel plans at the last second,” or “It hurts when you flirt with other people in front of me.” Instead of listening, reflecting, or showing curiosity, the narcissist’s eyes immediately well up. Her breathing changes. She may say, “I guess I’m just a terrible person,” or, “I can’t believe you would say that to me when you know how much I’ve been through.” The original topic vanishes. Now the entire conversation is about comforting her, reassuring her that she is not a monster, and walking back the perfectly reasonable concerns that opened the discussion.

Over time, this creates a brutal double bind for the partner. On one side is the need to protect their own well‑being by addressing real issues. On the other side is the dread of what happens every time they try: sobbing, shutdown, and a lingering sense that they are the cruel one for “making her cry.” Many partners find themselves apologizing for simply being honest, then working overtime to prove they are not as heartless as she implies. The relationship slowly becomes a one‑way street where her emotional comfort is sacred and their own needs are optional at best.

The same pattern appears in family dynamics. A daughter might bring up painful childhood experiences, only to watch her narcissistic mother collapse into tears about how “nothing I ever did was good enough for you.” Siblings who dare to mention unfair treatment may suddenly be cast as ungrateful or abusive. In each case, the message is clear: if you cause me to feel pain, you are the bad guy. Once that belief takes root, the narcissist never really has to look at her own behavior. She simply cries, waits for you to backtrack, and then uses the episode as further evidence that she is endlessly mistreated.

The ‘No One Understands Me’ Routine and Social Self‑Isolation

Another favorite line in the female narcissist’s script is, “No one understands me.” On its face, that sentence sounds like a plea for connection. Underneath, it often operates as a shield against accountability and a wall that keeps genuine intimacy out. If no one can possibly understand her struggles, then no one is qualified to question her behavior, challenge her story, or suggest she might be contributing to the chaos she constantly complains about.

In friendships, this routine shows up as a kind of emotional one‑upmanship. If you share a hard day, she has had a worse week. If you are anxious about money, her financial struggles are uniquely catastrophic. When you try to offer advice, she dismisses it with, “It’s different for me,” or, “You just don’t get what it’s like.” At first, you might redouble your efforts to be supportive, bringing more empathy, more reassurance, more practical help. Eventually, you start to realize there is no finish line. No matter how much you give, she never feels fully seen—and you always feel strangely inadequate.

In families, the “no one understands me” script can function like emotional cement. Loved ones walk on eggshells, terrified of being the next person accused of not caring enough. Holidays, celebrations, and simple check‑ins become high‑stakes events where everyone tries to say the perfect thing so she does not spiral into another monologue about how alone she is. Ironically, the more they try to prove their love, the more powerless they feel, because the goalposts keep moving. Her loneliness becomes a bottomless pit they can never fill.

What often goes unnoticed is that this routine also isolates the narcissist herself—but on her own terms. By insisting that no one can truly grasp her inner world, she positions herself as uniquely complex and special. She can then reject, minimize, or discard any feedback that does not match her self‑image, because “you just don’t understand.” The result is a closed feedback loop: she complains of being misunderstood while systematically blocking the very conversations that could create understanding. Everyone ends up stuck—she in her martyr role, and others in the doomed project of trying to rescue her from a loneliness she keeps carefully intact.

Guilt‑Tripping Gurus: Emotional Leverage in Relationships

When whining and tears are not enough to keep people in line, guilt often steps in as the closer. The female narcissist is a master of emotional bookkeeping. She remembers every favor she has ever done, every sacrifice she has ever claimed to make, and every moment where she believes she “showed up” for you. Whenever you set a boundary or fail to meet her unspoken expectations, she opens that mental ledger and starts reading it aloud.

You might hear lines like, “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me?” or “I guess I just care more than everyone else does.” Sometimes the guilt‑trip is even more subtle: a long pause, a wounded look, a quiet, “Wow. Okay.” The message is the same either way. If you really loved her, you would anticipate her needs. You would not need to be asked twice. You would not make her feel unimportant by prioritizing your own time, energy, or limits.

In romantic relationships, this emotional leverage can be especially suffocating. Partners may be shamed for spending time with friends, pursuing hobbies, or even resting. “Must be nice to have that kind of freedom,” she might say, painting herself as the one who is always sacrificing while you are off enjoying yourself. The reality—that you are simply trying to live a balanced life—gets erased under an avalanche of complaints about how little you give and how much she endures. So you cancel plans, work late, or over‑explain every decision in an effort to preempt the next guilt‑storm.

Over time, you may notice a creeping pattern: your world shrinks while hers expands. You stop talking about your own stress because it somehow always turns into a referendum on how you are failing her. You avoid positive news because it seems to trigger sulking or competition. You start measuring every action against one question: “Will this upset her?” That is the quiet victory of the guilt‑tripping narcissist. She does not have to chain you to her; she just has to train you to chain yourself.

The Art of Martyrdom: Chronic Complaining as Power Play

If guilt‑tripping is her favorite sport, martyrdom is her brand. The female narcissist often casts herself as the long‑suffering center of every story: the only one holding the family together, the only employee who really cares, the only friend who “always shows up” while everyone else is flaky and selfish. She does not simply have a bad day; she is the one who “always” gets the short end of the stick. She does not just help out sometimes; she is the one “no one appreciates.”

Chronic complaining is the soundtrack to this identity. She catalogues every inconvenience, from minor traffic to scheduling conflicts, as proof that the universe has singled her out for special hardship. When she does something kind, the gesture is rarely quiet or private. It is mentioned, revisited, and occasionally resurrected months later as evidence of her saint‑like dedication. If anyone dares question her behavior, she can instantly pivot to, “After all I’ve done, this is the thanks I get?”

In group spaces, the martyr persona gives her enormous, unspoken power. People hesitate to ask her for basic cooperation because she already seems so overburdened. They excuse her outbursts because “she has so much going on.” They offer praise and reassurance not just because she did something helpful, but because they are trying to stay ahead of the next wave of complaints about being unappreciated. The net effect is that her suffering—real or embellished—becomes the organizing principle around which everyone else quietly arranges themselves.

The most unsettling part is that on some level, she may fully believe this narrative. Narcissistic thinking often rewrites events so that the person truly experiences themselves as the hero and the victim at once: noble, selfless, and yet tragically misunderstood. That internal story makes it even harder to break the cycle from the outside. By the time you try to point out how manipulative the martyrdom has become, you are already cast as yet another ungrateful character in her legend of endless sacrifice.

Winning Sympathy: The Emotional Economy of Attention

Underneath all the whining, sighing, and theatrical suffering, there is a simple transactional truth: attention is the currency, and the female narcissist wants a never‑ending stream of it. Sympathy is one of the easiest ways to secure that flow. Most people feel a natural urge to comfort those who seem hurt or overwhelmed. She knows this, and she builds an entire emotional economy around it—where every complaint is an invoice and every teardrop is a reminder that you still owe her.

This is why her stories so often lean toward the dramatic, the unfair, and the tragic. Bosses “single her out.” Friends “use” her. Exes are “monsters.” Even minor inconveniences are narrated with the intensity of a true crime documentary. The content of the story matters less than the emotional payoff. The more you react, gasp, or rush to reassure, the more your role in her life is cemented: you are there to witness, validate, and reinforce her special brand of suffering.

Over time, you may notice that the exchange is strangely one‑sided. When you need comfort, she either hijacks the moment or quickly becomes exhausted by your feelings. When you share a win, she finds a way to pivot back to her stress, her past, her fears. The message is subtle but relentless: your inner world is background noise; hers is the main soundtrack. If you stick around long enough, you can end up relating to yourself through her reactions—wondering if your needs are “too much,” if your joy is “annoying,” or if your boundaries are “selfish.”

That is the quiet cost of participating in this emotional economy. You are not just paying in time and empathy; you are paying with your own sense of importance. Every time you downgrade your needs to keep her calm, you reinforce the unspoken rule that her feelings get top billing. Eventually, you may not even realize you are doing it. It just feels “easier” to go along, listen, soothe, and endure the same complaints on repeat rather than disrupt the system by asking, “What about me?”

Emotional Blackmail With a Side of Sulk

When sympathy, guilt, and martyrdom are not enough to keep people obedient, many female narcissists reach for a darker tool: emotional blackmail. This often arrives not as shouting or threats, but as a long, chilly silence. Plans are “forgotten.” Texts go unanswered. She moves through the house or workplace with visible tension, making sure everyone can feel that something is wrong—without actually saying what it is.

This combination of sulking and withdrawal forces you to do all the emotional labor. You replay conversations, scan for mistakes, and eventually approach her with an anxious, “Did I do something?” That is your first trap. Once you step into the role of supplicant, she can dole out information in small, punishing doses. Maybe you “hurt her feelings” by not reacting the way she wanted. Maybe you “embarrassed” her in front of others by making a harmless joke. Maybe you “made her feel unimportant” by having a life that did not revolve around her that day.

The pattern is always the same: your behavior is framed as careless, unloving, or cruel, while her silent treatment is framed as “needing space” or “protecting her peace.” In reality, this is a power move. You are being trained to dread her distance so much that you will do almost anything to avoid triggering it. People in these dynamics often describe feeling like they are trying to crack a constantly changing code. One week, a boundary is accepted. The next week, the same boundary earns them days of icy silence.

Over time, this kind of emotional blackmail can be deeply destabilizing. You may stop trusting your own perception of what is reasonable. You start apologizing for things that are not actually wrong, just to get the tension to break. Your nervous system learns to scan for every micro‑shift in her energy: the tight jaw, the clipped responses, the way she suddenly gets “too tired” to talk. Life shrinks into a constant project of keeping her regulated, even as she makes no effort to regulate herself.

Victim Card Mastery, Gaslighting Games, and ‘It’s Not Fair!’ Syndrome

At the core of all this whining lies one central storyline: she is always the one being wronged. This “victim card” is not just an occasional reaction; for many female narcissists, it is their primary identity. Any time there is conflict, any time someone draws a line, any time life does not bend to her will, she reaches for this card and slams it down on the table. Suddenly, the conversation is no longer about what she did. It is about how unfairly she has been treated.

Gaslighting often rides along with this victim narrative. If you bring up a specific incident—something she said, something she did—she may flat‑out deny it, minimize it, or bury it beneath a flood of unrelated grievances. “You’re twisting things.” “You always make me the bad guy.” “What about the time you…?” Threads of truth get tangled with distortions until you are no longer sure of your own memory. The more confused you feel, the more she can insist that her version of events is the only one that counts.

The soundtrack to this drama is that familiar refrain: “It’s not fair.” She did not get the recognition she deserved. She had to do “everything” while others relaxed. She never gets the same grace she is supposedly always giving. On the surface, this might sound like normal frustration. Over time, though, you may notice that fairness only becomes a crisis when she feels slighted. When other people are struggling, she has endless explanations for why they should toughen up, work harder, or stop playing the victim.

Living inside this “unfairness” bubble can be exhausting for everyone around her. Families contort themselves trying to prove they are not neglectful. Teams overcompensate to make sure she feels recognized. Friends bend their own values so they are not labeled selfish or cold. Yet the target is always moving. The more people try to satisfy her sense of injustice, the more grievances she seems to find. That is because the problem is not the circumstances; it is the personality running the narrative.

Love Bombs, Sob Stories, and the Rollercoaster of Emotional Chaos

If the female narcissist were miserable and whining all the time, most people would eventually slip away. What keeps so many partners, friends, and relatives hooked is the emotional rollercoaster: the dizzying alternation between intoxicating highs and gut‑punch lows. One week, she is showering you with praise, affection, and devotion—love bombing you with texts, compliments, and big promises about the future. The next, she is distant, bitter, and full of complaints about how you have let her down.

Those high phases can feel almost magical. She may describe you as her soulmate, her rock, the only one who “truly gets” her. She might lavish you with gifts, attention, and physical affection. In friend groups, she can be the funniest, most generous member—the one who makes everyone feel chosen and special. It is easy to start believing that if you can just keep her in this warm, affectionate mode, everything will be fine.

But the warm phase is conditional. It tends to appear when you are meeting her needs, flattering her ego, or playing the supportive audience to her latest story. The moment you pull back, disagree, or simply act like an independent person with your own life, the weather changes. Suddenly you are hearing sob stories about how you have abandoned her, how no one ever stays, how she “should have known better than to trust anyone.” It is emotional whiplash: yesterday you were a hero, today you are the villain.

This push‑pull dynamic can be incredibly addictive. Your nervous system starts chasing the next “good phase,” the way someone might chase the next high. You keep hoping that if you just explain yourself clearly enough, give enough, or endure enough, you will get back to that sweet, loving version of her for good. What actually happens is that you get more deeply entangled. The chaos stops looking like chaos and starts looking like “passion,” “chemistry,” or just “how we are.” Meanwhile, your sense of what a stable, healthy relationship looks like quietly erodes.

The Long‑Term Impact: Psychological Toll and Relationship Breakdown

Living for years in the orbit of a whining, victim‑playing narcissist is not just “dramatic” or “draining”—it is genuinely damaging. Many survivors describe walking away with shredded self‑esteem, intense self‑doubt, and a chronic sense that they are somehow fundamentally “too much” or “not enough.” When your feelings have been minimized, mocked, or overshadowed for long enough, it becomes difficult to trust them at all.

Anxiety is another common fallout. When you have spent months or years bracing for the next sulk, the next crying jag, the next guilt‑trip, your nervous system stays on high alert. Even after the relationship ends, everyday disagreements can feel terrifying. A simple, “Can we talk?” from a new partner may send your heart racing because your body remembers what that phrase used to lead to: accusations, tears, and emotional chaos.

Relationships with others often suffer as well. Narcissistic partners and parents are notorious for isolating their targets—whether by bad‑mouthing friends, creating drama at family events, or constantly needing you so much that you slowly disappear from your own life. By the time you realize how alone you have become, it can feel embarrassing or even shameful to reach out and explain what has been happening. The isolation deepens the damage, making it easier for the narcissist’s version of reality to dominate your thinking.

On top of this, there can be very real physical symptoms: exhaustion, sleep problems, headaches, stomach issues, and a general sense of being worn down. Emotional stress does not stay in the mind; it lands in the body. When you are constantly managing someone else’s feelings while suppressing your own, your system pays the price in the form of chronic tension and burnout.

Paths to Recovery: Reclaiming Emotional Freedom

The good news is that once you see the pattern, you can start to step out of it. Recovery begins with naming what you have experienced: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, guilt‑tripping, and victim‑playing are not “quirks.” They are tactics. Understanding this helps loosen the grip of self‑blame. You were not “too sensitive” or “overreacting.” You were responding to a system that was designed to keep you off‑balance.

From there, boundaries become essential. That might mean saying no to late‑night crisis calls that always end the same way. It might mean refusing to apologize for feelings that are valid. In some cases, it might mean going low‑contact or no‑contact entirely, especially when the narcissist is a parent, ex‑partner, or long‑time friend who shows no sign of changing. Boundaries are not punishments; they are locks on the doors of your emotional home.

Support from the outside world matters, too. Therapy with a clinician who understands narcissistic dynamics can help you untangle what happened and rebuild trust in your own perceptions. Support groups—online or in person—can remind you that you are not alone and not crazy. Hearing other people describe the same sighs, the same tears, the same “it’s not fair” speeches can be strangely validating. You start to realize that there is a playbook, and you have been reading from it for far too long.

Most importantly, recovery is about reconnecting with your own emotional reality. That might mean noticing when your body tenses around certain people, listening when your gut says, “Something is off,” and allowing yourself to want relationships that are calm, mutual, and kind—not just intense. Over time, you can move from feeling like a constant supporting character in someone else’s drama to being the author of your own life again. The whining may continue somewhere in the distance, but it no longer gets to write your script.

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