Piss off. I don't know what I've done to you, but I'd like to know why you've got a bone to pick with me. I didn't steal your boyfriend, I didn't make fun of your acid washed jeans and retainer, and I didn't tell anyone you stuffed your bra. So what's the problem? I smile and say hey when we see each other, and I even talked Stephanie Becker into inviting you to her party. Sure, we aren't the best of friends, but I thought we at least were cool with each other.
But, no. Here you go with your over dramatic self, making my life a living hell. I don't appreciate you giving me food poisoning, and I damned sure don't like you making Baby Butterbean sick. First the weird allergic reaction that resulted in that gnarly rash, and now you've turned my kid into an exorcist baby!? I cannot handle cleaning up anymore vom. Sorry if you're eating lunch while reading this.
All I have to say is you better back off. I mean, sure, I look all nice and innocent, but underneath, I'm really quite gangsta. And I will not hesitate to shank a bish, got it? Best watch yo back.
Word to ya motha,
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