AIr-headed better-than-you twats like Molly can never hate enough, loathe enough, despise enough their own persons, upbringing, ancestry, relatives, and home to be satisfied and happy. They'll go through life unlovable and unloved, and wonder what's wrong with everyone else as they settle into their pudgy gray-haired dottage with boxes of wine and dozens of cats as their only constant companions, when they can never be content to just be, without all that soul-rotting hatred and anger. At being born.

Nature puts stripes on a tiger, spots on a leopard, and rattles on a snake to warn you to stay the fuck away.

With Molly, you just have to hear her open her piehole, (or, in this case, spew electronically) and the warning is as loud and clear as an air raid siren.

Probably just like her voice.

The only crime in her case would be sperm donation that might allow her to reproduce.

If she ducks that bullet, she's just another useless eater in a society of them, best left among her own kind: the terminally miserable. Living and dying in NYFC is thus the perfect thing to which fate could consign her.

Nature always balances its own scales.