You can sit around with the gin running out of your mouth; you can humiliate me; you can tear me to pieces all night, that’s perfectly okay, that’s all right. You make me sick. Be careful Kamala. I’ll rip you to pieces. Total war. .. Kamala is 108… years old. She weighs somewhat more than that… There are limits. I mean, a man can put up with only so much without he descends a rung or two on the old evolutionary ladder, which is up your line. Now, I will hold your hand when it’s dark and you’re afraid of the boogeyman and I will tote your gin bottles out after midnight so no one can see but I will not light your cigarette. And that, as they say, is that… You’re a monster – You are. You’re a spoiled, self-indulgent, willful, dirty-minded, liquor-ridden… In my mind you’re buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose, it’s much quieter. And please keep your clothes on, too. There aren’t many more sickening sights in this world than you with a few drinks in you and your skirt up over your head. Or “your heads,” should say. You can go around like a hopped-up Arab, slashing at everything in sight, scarring up half the world if you want to. But let somebody else try it? No. YOU SATANIC BITCH.’
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[thanks, albee]