You're a huge bitch. And a whore. And you think you're so great. And, man, I hate you. I can't live with you for much longer! You're going to be 20 and you live at home. You have a part-time job at a bakery and went to school for about a year taking dumbshit math and cooking. That is humiliating. For you and for me. When people at school ask me where you go to school, I tell them I don't know. Because I'm embarrassed to tell them the truth. But what the fuck do I care? "She goes to community college. I know. She's an idiot. I mean really dumb. She's miscarried I don't know how many times because she's a whore. And she's a bitch. But whatever." But I'll be gone soon. And I won't have to talk to you anymore, Laura. Have a nice life. Trophy wife. Ha. You'll be lucky if you end up married at all. No good man would want you, if you can't tell from the people you've dated. Because, honey, you're not a trophy. You're trash. You're a punishment. And I'm done with it.
"You know you can't keep letting it get you down. And you can't keep dragging that dead weight around. If there ain't all that much to lug around, better run like hell when you hit the ground. Let it go, this too shall pass. You know you can't keep letting it get you down. This too shall pass when the morning comes!"
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