Stay classy, leftards. Stay classy. A video went viral the other day of a mother – or I should say egg donor – from Houston recording herself tossing her little boy out of the house for “voting for Trump.” In school. In a mock election.
The video shows the mother’s reaction to learning her young son voted for president-elect Donald Trump in a mock election held at his elementary school.
“Since you voted for Trump, you can get your sh*t and get out. Uh uh, the suitcase is packed by the door.” the woman says at the beginning of the video.
In the video, she repeatedly tells her son to take his suitcase and get out of the house. The child is clearly terrified and crying, pleading with his mother to let him stay.
Once outside the home, the woman made the boy hold a sign saying, “My mom kicked me out because I voted for Donald Trump.” As he walks down the sidewalk, the woman says, “Bye, Donald Trump lover.”
Later in the video, the woman asks her child why he voted for Trump to which he replies because he sees Trump a lot on TV.
I will tell you the video is horrifying to me as a parent and as a human being. The little boy is terrified. He’s weeping and pleading as this pernicious cunt tells her 8-year-old child to get his “shit” and “get out.” The child’s tears are heartbreaking and his hysterical, frightened wails are literally making me shudder.
She forces him out and hands him a sign that said “My mom kicked me out because I voted for Donald Trump.” As he walks down the sidewalk, the woman says, “Bye, Donald Trump lover.” The little lonely form cries out for his mom as she walks away from him, and then dejectedly falls to the pavement, as another little boy, who I assume is his brother, weeps uncontrollably as this pestilential excuse for a human being walks away.
This is abuse, folks, plain and simple. This is intentional trauma inflicted upon an innocent child, who says he simply voted for Trump because he saw him on TV.
And yet, according to the story linked above, the “authorities,” who jump on parents and take children away for simply allowing their kids to walk home from the playground alone, refuse to do anything about this blatant, repulsive depravity!
The “authorities” come running any time a gun is even mentioned about being in the house by a “concerned” (read: nosy) neighbor. “Suspected” abuse from an anonymous source is enough to bring child protective services to the door. Running late from an errand, leaving your kids outside for a while? That’s cause to have them taken away!
And yet, detectives who investigated the case claim the woman told them she was just joking and that she was sorry about the video.
A joke? What kind of heartless, cold, callous cock goblin could think of playing a joke so traumatic and cruel on an 8-year-old child? Who could think this is funny?
Yeah, I’m sure she’s sorry. Now that the video has gone viral, and the police came a knockin’ at her door! Now, she’s sorry?
She wasn’t sorry watching her terrorized little boy scream in terror at the top of his lungs?
She wasn’t sorry seeing his defeated, dejected form collapse on the sidewalk?
She wasn’t sorry, hearing his brother wail in dismay as they walked away from her weeping boy?
No, she’s only sorry about the video. She apparently not sorry for bullying and intimidating her own child.
And while I’m not normally someone who would send child protective services to anyone’s door, to me this is a clear case of emotional abuse. This noxious sack of anal ooze shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a child, and yet, the police merely shrugged and claimed the kid looks to be “in good shape.”
You can bet that if there was a report of an unsecured gun in the house – no matter how inaccurate – those kids would be foster care by now! But in this case, emotionally terrorizing a little boy doesn’t add up to child abuse, according to the “authorities.”
What kind of message is this “mother” sending to her child? Certainly not that he’s free in this country to make his own choice about whom he would like to see in a leadership position! Certainly not that he can be honest about that choice!
In this case, an apology is just not enough.
I’m going to share something with you, my dear readers, that I don’t normally share. Obviously, those close to me know, but generally, I haven’t spoken about this publicly. The reason I’m doing so today is because many times, when you experience an indescribable tragedy, you feel alone. So alone!
Logically you know you aren’t the only one. Your rational mind tells you there are others, but your heart isolates you inside this cocoon of tragedy, agony, and loss. So you internalize and try to forget…
… Until you run across something so heartwrenching, so unreal through which one of your friends has suffered, that your own pain pales in comparison.
It happened yesterday, when my friend Chris posted something that made my breath catch. He graciously wrote this post that explores his unspeakable agony for me to publish, because I asked him to. Maybe I’m posting this as catharsis. Maybe it’s catharsis for both me and him.
In 2002, my daughter Jordan Nickole died at 32 weeks of gestation. It was a difficult pregnancy. We did amniocentesis because the OB found a large cyst or bubble that covered the entire back of her neck in an ultrasound, which denotes Turner Syndrome and can cause a panoply of medical and developmental problems, including short height, failure to start puberty, infertility, heart defects, certain learning disabilities and social adjustment problems. It means that the X chromosome is either completely or partially missing.
I was told I had the option of aborting if the test came back abnormal. We thought long and hard about it, but decided not to. The amnio came back negative, and as relieved as we were (I remember getting the call at work and getting dizzy and falling down on the floor weak with relief), the doctor watched me and Jordan closely from then on.
At 32 weeks, she couldn’t find a heartbeat. She tried several times, stayed late until after 1900 hrs., and finally sent me to the hospital.
Long story short, I was forced to give birth to a stillborn. I refused all night. I told them I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t do it. But in the end I had to.
For years, I pushed Jordan’s death to the back of my mind. And then Chris wrote this. Maybe it sounds monstrous, but I feel a little less alone.
I hope Chris does too.
This is a hard post to write. I’m not even sure of the reasons for writing it. I’ve had 14 years to process. Maybe I want to help someone else with my struggle. Maybe I want to just get it out. Maybe I just want someone to relate. I don’t know.
Interpret as you will. I’m not sure I care.
Usually when a person starts talking about regret, it’s in reference to some boneheaded mistake they’ve made in their lifetime, or the trip to Disney World they didn’t take.
For me, it was about looking for a piece of machinery.
Jessica Elise was born January 17th, 1994. Most people who take the time, either remember it as the California Earthquake or Ice-Storm#1 (There would be another icestorm in a few weeks that made this one look like a piker) Babs Streisand’s house got damaged. I remember that one acutely because I sincerely dislike Babs. Love her singing voice… don’t like her.
We knew things weren’t going to be “normal” with this one. Our son, bless his soul, had been a rough delivery and Jessica had been rough pregnancy. We’d seen doctors, and more doctors, and genetic experts and more tests and all we got were more questions.
We got answers that afternoon. The best answer is that we had a beautiful baby girl. Jessica Elise (“I will see the promise of God” loosely translated. I actually didn’t know that when we picked the name, but it actually makes a little sense now.) The not so good answer was that she was going to be a challenge, medically.
Jess was going to be a both a blessing and challenge. Micropthalmia meant she was never going to be able to see without some sort of “eyeball transplant” or Star Trek level technology. Esophageal Atresia meant surgery to connect stomach and esophagus so she could at least keep from drowning in her own saliva. So… challenges.
For eight and a half years, my wife, my son, our extended family and friends and I, and the people we came to know because of Jess faced the challenge of raising and helping that little girl live. That little girl who one OB/GYN told us would be a “monster,” and we ought to consider aborting her. The little girl who we were assured would never laugh, never talk, never walk, never love us back, and so we ought to allow “nature” to run its course and let her choke on her own spit and snot…which “might not be a bad thing.”
Sixty plus surgeries. Countless days and hours spent in hospital rooms and hallways. Hours hoping and praying for another breath on her own. Watching a pediatric nephrologist jumping for joy because she peed on her own because that meant her kidneys hadn’t failed.
Challenges and blessings.
Eight and a half years. How in the world do you try and recount all the amazing things you learn taking care of a baby like that? How do you recount all of the times when medical science was either flat out wrong in its predictions or flummoxed by a little girl with a snaggletoothed grin? (She lost two of her teeth during a surgery when the OR tech accidentally knocked them out during intubation.) How do you talk about the tears that roll down your face when your daughter, grabs your hand and desperately, frantically wants you to tell her that she’s “pretty girl” (using tactile sign) because her face was massively bruised from having eye socket expanders placed that day, and she had apparently heard her parents talking about how bad she looked (remember she wasn’t even going to be able to know we loved her)?
Having that little girl was the biggest challenge and one of the three greatest blessings I’ve ever known. My son and my wife are the other two.
Eight and a half years. That level of care will take it out of you. Even with help, it will drain you and exhaust you, mind, body and spirit. It drained all of us. We were happy to do it, glad to do it. You don’t do any less for someone you love, but there comes a time where there is nothing left to give.
There also comes a time where the body just will not work anymore. For most of us, that doesn’t happen until we reach a good ole age. But not for Jessica. For months, she had been having problems digesting food, getting weaker, getting sick easier. Looking back it’s easy to see the problems, but inside the storm it’s harder to make out, you just brace and wait for the next blast.
We’d all had it. We’d taken so many hits. We were tired. And when you’ve gotten that tired, you rely on, depend on, some sort of routine to maintain your sanity in an insane situation. That routine, almost a complacency, is dangerous. They say the most dangerous place to drive is right near your home. The reason is that you relax from the routine… you’ve driven this stretch so many times, you could do it in your sleep… right? Up until the deer jumps out from nowhere.
I was out of work but starting school for my degree. I was homeschooling Christopher and taking him with me on school days (we lived right down the street from the Christian College I was attending, and a classmate’s wife was more than happy to kind of ride herd on him with her own kids until I got out of class). Christine was working on the other side of Baltimore and thus had the only real working vehicle capable of hauling all of us. She hadn’t wanted to go, things weren’t “right,” but I made her go, so that she’d have some sort of “normal.”
The weekend had been abysmal. Jess was getting sick and was miserable. We almost couldn’t console her; we’d go into her room, quiet her down, put on her favorite music album and make sure everything was OK; then back out into the living room. Then an hour later do it again. And again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
She had gotten skeletally thin, like a prisoner of war or a famine victim. There was no muscle tone anymore. The peritoneal feeding went through her, literally. It was almost undigested.
She was breathing heavyly that day. She was probably getting an infection, I thought, as I changed her and her bedding that morning. I’ll keep an eye on her and maybe start getting things ready for a trip to the hospital.
By afternoon, I’d already contacted Christine and let her know that we were definitely gonna be doing an all-nighter at the hospital. “But don’t worry,” I said. “Don’t kill yourself getting home.”
“What are her SATs doing?” my wife asked.
“Not sure; I’ll dig the Pulse Oximeter out and run a check. (For those who don’t know, it’s that thing in the hospital you wear on your finger or two with the red light. It measures the amount of oxygen in the blood.) At least that way, we’ll have number to throw at the ER docs.”
Christopher was watching Buffy on TV as I started looking for Jess’s Pulse Ox. I had made sure the O2 cannula was in her nose earlier and had been running O2 during the day to see if her breathing would calm down. No dice.
Also, no Pulse OX. We had recently moved and were living out of boxes, but I could have sworn we’d used that Pulse OX since we moved in. I looked everywhere for that thing. I tore closets apart. I tore boxes apart. I re-tore boxes apart.
I looked in on Jess. She was breathing more labored now. She was nearly thrashing, she was in so much pain, from exactly what I don’t know, but it was breaking my heart to watch.
I had to take a break. I sat down and watched TV with Christopher for a little bit, trying to rack my brain where the machine was. I called her nurse that cared for her on weekends. Nope. Didn’t know. Hadn’t needed to use it.
I went back around the house, now frantically trying to find a piece of equipment that did not want to be found.
Christine called and had left work. Traffic around Baltimore being what it was, it was going to be an hour or more before she got home. I had to find that machine before she got home. I had to get the baby ready to go.
I went in and started stripping her down to give her a cleanup and new change of clothes. There was something really wrong. She was gasping for breath, even with O2. I had to find that damn machine.
I don’t know exactly how many minutes later it was. It couldn’t have been very long. Ten? Fifteen? I gave up on looking for the bloody thing and was just going to get her packed up.
The first thing I noticed is that she’d messed her bed. Well, that was “normal” for the day. I think I’d changed her bed at least four or five times. I also noticed that she was quiet. I went over to the crib and realized that she also wasn’t breathing. She was a very odd pale shade of… when they say blue, it’s not. It’s a weird pale.
Some people get hysterical when crap really goes wrong. I get very calm. It’s weird in its own way, I suppose. You can tell just how far it’s dropped in the pot, by how calm I am. I get bent out of shape by some of the most mundane things, but…
I told Christopher to call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance. I started doing CPR and begging her to cry or move or do something.
The EMTs didn’t take long to get there. I told them what the situation was, and they set to work. The police arrived at the same time… of course they did. I’ve been around enough LEOs and EMTs over the years to know the drill.
I calmly told them the event of the last however long it was and the name of Jessica’s doctor at Johns Hopkins where she was a patient.
I knew I was going to jail. The house was a wreck. I mean seriously a wreck. The baby’s room was a mess. She was nearly naked, covered in crap, pill bottles, medical supplies, boxes, clothes, everything was strewn everywhere during my search for the O2 monitor.
I was calm. Too calm. I was going to jail.
Didn’t really care.
No punishment could ever come close to what I was feeling. What I AM feeling even today.
My little girl died, and I wasn’t there.
I’ve said that before, and people invariably explain it away. But the bottom line is I WASN’T THERE. I will go to my grave and I will not ever feel good about that.
We spent eight and a half years preparing for the day she left us. Knowing it as a fact of life every day for eight and half years. And when the time came, was she surrounded by people who love her? Was her daddy there holding her hand and giving her to the angels. NO. She died alone in puddle of crap fighting for her next breath. How do you tell yourself that’s OK?
Intellectually, even in my faith I know that it worked out as it needed to. I want to believe, I DO believe that in her final moments God was with her. But it really doesn’t make a difference. Even if God WAS there, I wasn’t, and that’s what I regret. I probably always will.
You can say what you want. At this point I really don’t care.
I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m writing this, intending for someone to read. Some will probably say I’m looking for attention… maybe I am. Maybe I need someone to tell me one more time that it’s OK. Maybe I’ll believe it this time. Maybe I just want someone else to know that if they’ve gone through this, they’re not alone. A new set of friends lost their baby to miscarriage yesterday. I can’t say I know how they feel, but I know grief and regret, and the endless what-if’s.
I don’t know. Take from this what you will. Do with it what you will. I don’t give pat answers anymore. All I have is a hope. That I’ll see her again someday.
I miss my girl.
One more year, Jess. Miss you, pretty girl. Hopefully, I’ll be there sooner or later.
P.S. I found the Pulse Ox the day after the funeral when we returned to the house. It was sitting right on top of a box that I had torn apart several times looking for it.
Those of you who know anything about my past history, know that I adopted my two daughters from my half-brother, who died in 2006 from complications due to prolonged drug use, and his wife. You know the history. I won’t rehash it here. Needless to say, the kids had issues. A lot of them. But we felt they were innocent and needed a chance to thrive and be loved and cared for by parents whose first priority wasn’t to stick a needle in their veins.
This is why stories like this are so painful for me to read, and the subsequent reactions to stories like this enrage me to the point of losing control. It started out with police arriving on the scene of a drug overdose. One male, already dead, and a barely alive female. Their four children, ages 7, 5, 2, and one month were being comforted by neighbors.
An officer-in-training with [Michelle] Burton lent the two boys his flashlight; soon, the toddlers were running around, shining it in people’s faces.
The 7-year-old was quieter, Burton said. The officer asked if she needed anything.
The girl asked if someone could sign her homework, so she could turn it in to her teacher the next day.
“That broke my heart,” said Burton. “She said, ‘I did my work.’ She pulled it out and showed it to us. It was math homework, (like) ‘Which number is greater? Which number is odd or even?’ … I told her, ‘Sweetie, you probably won’t have to go to school tomorrow. … But where you’re going is going to have everything you need.’”
In the apartment, Burton found an unopened can of infant formula and a baby bottle; she grabbed both.
At the precinct, officers bought whatever the other kids wanted to eat from a vending machine. There, Burton removed her vest and other police gear so she could comfortably hold the infant and give her a bottle. It had to have been hours since she had been fed, Burton thought.
By all accounts it was a tender scene. Someone took a photo of Burton comforting the baby, and her husband posted it on social media, because he was proud of his wife. Apparently, she had a knack for comforting children in distress and was often called to accident scenes or any incidents involving families. On this particular night, Burton was two hours from the end of her shift, but she decided to stay and help.
She didn’t have to. She just did, apparently because she’s a decent person.
But being a decent person doesn’t shield you from screeching abuse from those who have an agenda. In this case, the children’s aunt and other unidentified family members decided to initiate backlash and take their howls of outrage to the Birmingham city council.
Instead of being grateful that this tiny infant was comforted in her time of need – when both parents stuck needles in their arms, instead of taking care of those who need them most, this toothless hag decided that the baby’s rights were somehow violated.
Mary Purnell Adalane, the aunt of the baby in the picture, spoke out at the Birmingham City Council meeting Tuesday. She said she and other family members felt like the baby, who’s just shy of two months old, was “exploited.”
“This child has a right and it’s been violated. This police officer exploited this child,” Adalane said. “No one gave them permission to take that picture.”
Adalane also added that some family members first learned about the baby’s parents overdosing by seeing the picture on social media.
Let’s examine this a bit closer. Mary Purnell Adalane has a problem with a husband posting a photo of his wife comforting a tiny, defenseless baby on social media.
Where the fuck was Mary Purnell Adalane when her sibling (I’m not sure if she’s related to the mother or the father) was shooting up?
Where the fuck were the other relatives who have an issue with this photo?
Where the fuck were these screeching shit weasels during their relatives’ obviously unhealthy habits? Heroin use isn’t exactly easy to keep a secret. Trust me. I’ve seen it.
Where the fuck were these loved ones when the children approached their neighbors for help because they couldn’t wake mommy and daddy?
If they learned about the OD via social media, they weren’t paying close attention to what was going on in these children’s lives beforehand.
Where were you, Mary Purnell Adalane and crew when your sibling(s) were using? Were you so clueless? Were you so uninterested?
Now, I fully realize that some people are better at hiding drug use than others, so there’s a small chance that they really were completely oblivious to the drug use and subsequent overdose. They might live far away, and just didn’t know. That’s totally possible too.
Frankly, my kids were living first in Ukraine, and then in Israel, and somehow we still knew that they needed to be rescued. Somehow we still knew that their parents were more concerned with their next fix than they were with the girls. So, I don’t accept that as an excuse. If you care about your family members, you make it your fucking business to know!
But moreover, how were this tiny baby’s rights “violated” by a husband posting a proud photo of his wife on social media? He posted no names, and merely showed a photo of his wife caring for a child that needed care. What right was violated? How is that exploitative?
You know what that baby has a right to? She has the right to be cared for. She has the right to be fed, and to be comforted in her time of need. She has the right to have someone hold her close and ensure she’s safe, fed, and loved.
(By the way – if anyone comes over here spewing political/libertarian rhetoric about what technically this infant’s rights are, I swear to fucking god, I’m going to throat punch the first motherfucker who does that! This is not what this post is about, and if you make it about that, you’re a heartless asshole.)
She received none of that from this shrieking, toothless cunt, who all of a sudden reared her repugnant face to claim the baby was “exploited” after the photo taken by a proud, loving husband of his wife going above and beyond to do her job and care for this poor little baby!
That tells me Mary Purnell Adalane and the unidentified shitbag relatives are out for media attention and a payoff. Mary Purnell Adalane and the shitgoblins related to these innocent, neglected children are the only ones doing the exploiting!
Having had to deal with a similar situation with She Who Must Not Be Named, I understand what these parents are going through. It’s gratifying to know that the judge in this case told the spoiled brat to shut her ignorant yap.
OK… maybe not in those exact words.
But if you’re wondering what I’m talking about, here’s the short of it:
Cupcake lives with parents.
Parents don’t like Cupcake’s boyfriend. Parents insist Cupcake do some chores. Parents also insist Cupcake follow the rules of the house.
Cupcake flips parents the giant bird, leaves their house two days before her 18th birthday and goes to live with BFF, whose parents are apparently much more permissive than the horrible ogres that are Cupcake’s parents. How could they insist that Cupcake follow their rules! How horrible!
So, parents, figuring their spawn has willingly left the nest, stop paying for Cupcake, which includes school tuition, and refuse to pay for Cupcake’s college.
What does Cupcake do?
Bitch sues her parents. Unsuccessfully, so far.
Sues them for $650 in weekly child support, college tuition, tuition at her private school and legal fees.
The AP has more details.
Rachel Canning had sought immediate relief in the form of $650 in weekly child support and the payment of the remainder of her tuition at Morris Catholic High School, as well as attorney’s fees.
State Superior Court Judge Peter Bogaard denied those motions but ordered the parties to return to court on April 22, when they will present evidence and testimony on the over-arching question of whether the Cannings are obligated to financially support their daughter. Rachel Canning, a high school senior, has already been accepted by at least one college and is seeking to have her parents pay some or all of her tuition, attorney Tanya Helfand told Bogaard Tuesday.
So Cupcake refuses to follow the rules of the house in which she’s living, dates an unacceptable to her parents guy, refuses to help out around the house, gets suspended from school for truancy, moves out and then expects her parents to continue paying for her?
And I’m sure BFF’s daddy is only too happy to foot the bill for the lawsuit, since the child support would be going into his pockets.
As an aside… $650 PER WEEK??? That’s child support in New Jersey nowadays? I’m in the wrong damn state, because I get WAY less than that amount PER MONTH here in Virginia!
But back to our story.
The judge in the case basically told the sniveling hemorrhoid to suck it.
In legal parlance, Rachel Canning was seeking an emergency order. But the judge, Morristown Superior Court Judge Peter Bogaard, seemed to sense that the real emergency was the disintegration of the American family and the erosion of parental rights.
“Do we want to establish a precedent where parents live in basic fear of establishing rules of the house?” Bogaard asked, according to published reports.
Now, the details in this story are all in the links I’ve provided above. Cupcake also accuses her father, a retired police chief, of “inappropriate affection,” although the only thing an independent investigator found was that Cupcake is an entitled, spoiled, rotten little twunt. And she accuses her mother of making comments about her weight, causing her to develop bulimia.
Oh poor baby! I admit it. I was doing musical theater in college, and I had to maintain a certain weight. Yeah, I was bulimic for several years. But you know what? I blame no one but myself. It wasn’t the overly critical directors, or my mommy constantly harping on my weight. It was me. I did stupid things, and I take full responsibility. I also had the good sense and the will power to stop. And I certainly didn’t sue those who were critical of me for making me that way!
Let me say this. If there was real abuse on the part of the parents, it needed to be handed over to law enforcement for investigation. But as it stands, Rachel Canning was a spoiled rotten little brat who didn’t want to abide by the rules of her parents’ house. She essentially emancipated herself and left their home, and only when she decided she was entitled to some of her parents’ money, did she all of a sudden begin claiming some kind of “inappropriate affection” on the part of her father. Sounds suspicious, to say the least.
But further than that…
I’ve been there and done that.
She Who Must Not Be Named pulled that shit with some regularity when she was living with me and her father. When she didn’t get her way, she wasn’t above screeching, “ABUSE!” When she was told to help out around the house and abide by the rules, she refused, and when she was told to leave (she was a legal adult at the time), she refused not only to unass the AO, but also to relinquish the keys to the vehicle she was borrowing from her father and me after she had wrecked the one we were helping her finance. She threatened to call the police and report supposed abuse when I took her arm to escort her out of my home, and when I grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1 for her, she all of a sudden grew shy and decided she didn’t want to report us after all. The police arrived anyway (because that’s what happens when you call 9-1-1), and she proceeded to accuse me and her father of being abusive, drunken drug users – a claim that was so ludicrous and downright hysterical, that the officers who arrived at the scene offered to take her to the local nuthouse for observation.
Later, after She Who Must Not Be Named left the house, met a guy at a stripper joint where she was working and shat out a kid by him, I gave her another chance and allowed her to come back and stay with me temporarily, because she claimed the boyfriend was abusive, and she wanted to find a job and become independent. After a month of sitting on her ass in my house, eating me out of house and home, taking advantage of my hospitality and doing little more than watching TV, I demanded she find a job. The plan was that she would save some money (since she had no expenses), get a place of her own for her and the kid, and get on her feet. Things deteriorated quickly, as entitled princess got a job in a restaurant, began working late (and buying drugs with the tips she made) and informed me and the kids one night that we just weren’t doing enough to help her, and that we all should be grateful for being allowed to watch her offspring until after midnight (when the kids had school, and I had to get up at 0400 for my two hour commute to work the next day). And that if she was such a burden to us, she was just going to go back and live with her oh-so-abusive boyfriend (note the threat in that tone) and it would be all. our. fault.
Needless to say my reply was to boot her the hell out of my house.
So should parents be forced to pay their adult children’s way, while their adult children do whatever the hell they want?
Much like any investor, parents should expect anyone for whom they pay to abide by their rules. If the leech lives in their house, eats their food and takes advantage of their good graces, the leech must do as its benefactors say as long as said leech lives under their roof. It’s called being accountable to people who support you.
If not, get the fuck out, Cupcake! No one owes you a living. No one owes you college tuition. No one owes you anything. You are an adult. You made your choices.
As far as I’m concerned, this little twit should be forced to pay her parents’ court costs as well!
As for BFF’s parents… it’s quite obvious they were looking for a payoff. After all $650 per week doesn’t grow on trees!