I grew up hearing about that daughter endlessly. Her name was Kamaria, and she was perfect. I know this because my mother told me about her at least once during every day of my childhood. I could never look as good as Kamaria did or straighten my room as well or do as well with my studies or even clean a toilet as well—although I find it difficult to believe the perfect little bitch ever cleaned a toilet—or used one. I didn’t know I was still bitter enough to write a thing like that. I shouldn’t be. It’s foolish to hate someone you’ve never met, someone who’s never harmed you. I believe now
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