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You are the underhanded, back-stabbing, bottom-dwelling bitch who I used to think was my friend. When you first came to my apartment with your bags in tow, I was already living with a man—not one I was in love with, but nonetheless, I was sharing his bed. I told you point-blank, "I hope you're not doing anything to jeopardize our friendship." You replied, "Like what?" Well, after almost a year with him, I've moved, been gone three weeks after your 51/50 ass moved in, and you have the nerve to still be there. GET OUT, BITCH. That is, while you still can. You never know what the future holds for you if you don't. But here's a newsflash, I do. And soon you will, too!
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