Your cosmopolitan, intellectual habits were so appealing, held so much promise. But "body painting" quickly devolved into my inscribing Oscar Wilde quotes on your numb inner thighs with a rusty X-acto knife. And hearing you "talk dirty" in a foreign language was only sexy until I realized that you had been translating movie reviews into Sanskrit.
Of course, the straw that broke the camel's back was when I missed my insulin shot and nearly died. There I was, squirming on the ground, an inch from death-and you did nothing! Nothing! You just sat in your wheelchair, head tilted on your shoulder, frantically blinking as I gasped what could have been my last breaths. I'm sorry, Karen, "Don't blame me, I'm a quadriplegic" only goes so far. At some point, you're going to have to stand up and take charge of your life.
I doubt that you will. You rich girls are all the same. You've been getting a free ride in a fancy wheelchair for way too long, and you're just going to keep coasting through life until you die of pneumonia or kidney failure or laziness...
Take care and I hope you find happiness in your future.
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