So at last the wildnerness years have ended and am proper girlfriend and all and have lessened occurence of morbid fantasies of dying alone. (The one with 78 cats to inherit my millions, saved up from all the Social Security earned from my 457 years of existence, onyl a few gay men and fabulously dressed women to attened my funeral, where "Eleanor Rigby" is played as I roll on down the isle...) Now I take my attention to figuring out how inspicuous I can make my secret bitchiness. Am trying my hardest to tone down my most singular of critical qualities and being nice. I'm smiling as hard as I can and pretending to enjoy sports or at least to understand them. Pepsi cousin is properly miserable.
But I am in a state of bliss.
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