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In particular, my best friend. It’s not my fault your life is in the crapper. Every piece of advice I’ve given you, you’ve ignored because it doesn’t fall into your perfect fantasy of what your life should be.
News Flash: You’re not a princess, you’re not 16, Prince Charming isn’t coming to sweep you away in his big, brawny arms. You’re 37, you live with your parents, your husband ran off because he was tired of putting up with your overdramatic “me-me-me” bullshit and the men you pick to date are the worst collection of losers, whiners and idiots I’ve ever seen.
You were right when you said that YOU were the common denominator. But instead of changing what you’re doing, you blame fate and the gods and past lives and whatever other fruit-headed crapola you can think of that doesn’t end with “Because I refuse to grow up and take responsibility for my life and the direction it takes.”
Grow up. Get a job and then realize that no job is perfect. Grow up. Your “writing career” is going to consist of shitty fly-by-night publishers because no real publishing house wants that much poorly-written violence and sex in a book with no discernable plot or character development. Grow up. No man is going to want to put up with this whiny, self-serving, poor-me nonsense or with your convenient “depression”.
Grow.
The.
Fuck.
Up.
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