Not to nit-pick, but who ever heard of labeling moving boxes with what is in them? I always just labeled the room that the box belonged in.
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Am I your secretary? Your handyman? Your assistant? Your errand boy? Your mover? Your maid? Your personal chef? Your in-home pet care specialist? Your fucking slave? No?! Then, why the fuck do you treat me that way? You throw a fit any time I do anything with anyone else. You tell me when I can or can't work. Then, you throw it in my face that your paying for everything, which is not the case, but you still feel like you have a right to tell me what to do with the money I do make. You don't get to have it both ways. You can't afford to support me. I don't have the things I need, let alone things I want. You dictate my every move and you're a horrible influence.
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You know for getting straight A's in school my cousin is dumber than she looks she told me when I moved back to Connecticut, she had only tolerated me so that she could spend time with my mother. Now, had my mother or I known that we would have moved across the country to get away from them, but of course just like our family always does they screwed me over behind my back. When my Uncle Jim told me that his cell phone wasn't charging anymore I became quite concerned because he had dementia and had been getting lost a lot recently. We were planning on going to Canada for the summer in just a few short months and no one really contacted me on the TracFone that I had. It had lots of minutes left on it, probably over 400 and I asked him if he wanted me to transfer his old telephone number to the new phone or if he just wanted to use the phone number that I had with that phone. He said that it wasn't a big deal that he would just pass out his new number to his contacts, and t...