As the sassy bitches stumbled on within their depressed, diseased-infested, hot-pink utopia

In the early years of the 21st century, a billionaire president, during his candidacy enraged countless dainty delusional dregs by reminding that, despite the pretended girl-power progress of patriarchs’ sterilized, lobotomized feminist pawns: “a gold-digging whore will let a billionaire touch her.”

More to the point: in that era, the Catherine Cliffords of the world—with their failed dreams, failing looks, and framed ivy-league Art History degrees—would suck out a billionaire’s hemorrhoid-pus with a straw and gargle it if the scraggly stuffragette thought that act would earn her a tiny fraction of a chance to receive a tiny fraction of the social allowance and attention which the billionaire had accrued.

Indeed, millions of such shes’ babies had been hurriedly murdered to reserve a mere chance for the victim’s mother to be the boring, doomed loser who is let to gate-keep, in one lifeless way or another, for other boring, doomed losers.

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