Round one goes to me. If we're keeping tabs, it is four black women against one Italian temper and her guilt trip on a bottle blond who no doubt now regrets our introduction. I have a throbbing tension headache, Nakea, which might have been Rita, at least through ear wax crust, Trudy, Debra, Gerry, have their Mississippi wise ass fiddle on a broken ferry steamer. You know why they all jump when I throw a fit? Care to guess?
Multi-lateral victimization has a dearth of riches, and we all know the system is corrupt as a Sin City graphic. We'll return to that issue. Meanwhile, Edward, this long and trivial parting in our shared residency has begun, dumbass. How unkind. I blame myself for inadvertently grafting onto more and entirely inadequate Jewish sympathy.
Let me tell you what liberals like my former instructor "won't touch": the mind numbing cruelty of black beliefs. Three out of four paraprofessionals think cerebral palsy is equivalent to *demonic possession,* and I thrust my entire youth and health into this nearly unimaginable horror unless you've seen it-- to do good. If I couldn't have the radical hippie, I'd roll in on the barge we call noblesse oblige. Never have I gone off on Jerry, never, even seven years ago in the sturdiness of my mid forties, his authority held its sway over me-- not now. I'd kill him because I was the obstinate one.
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