A journal entry from none other than Heather Mills's fake leg:
Dear Diary
I hate her! I hate her! I hate her! All she does is limp on me and knock my cold plasticky leg against Paul McCartney's vast fortune. She doesn't even bother to shave me like she does that other woman! Speaking of which...God, I hate her too. She's so smug, trudging her fleshy and smooth, and porcelain figure along beside me, always bragging that she's the real one, she's the "original." whatever. I'm the reason that slag Heather still walks. I think I'm gonna have to start seeing a therapist about this inferiority complex I've got cooking up.
Although...I'm still laughing at that day I pulled the great escape while she was dancing that one time...too too funny. I was sitting there dreaming about one of those cool roller coaster rides....and then one happened for real! I bet the "real" one was wishing she could do that. And here I am, still here, still having to contribute to the well being of the only woman/furniture hybrid that ever used to be a stripper. She doesn't even appreciate me! She just looks at me like the most convenient walking stick on the planet. It's ok, I only save her life on a daily basis. Forget daily, on a momentary basis. We'll just call it a continuous basis.
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haha "the only woman/furniture hybrid". hilarious. man, if personal aid equipment could talk. i wonder what my glucose monitor would say about me.
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