And who wrote this lousy script anyway? There is no resolution, no redemption, no nothing, just a big hole in my head. You stupid script writers, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Perhaps it has something to do with the San Francisco water system. Who knows? And who cares anyway? This is the point where I am supposed to launch into some stupid tirade about Debbie Tracy, as if I even remember who she was, just someone from college who I never talked to and do not know much about. I am supposed to say something about how she prefers the company of Heather, Heather being Mr. Wilson's mentally retarded daughter. Huh? As if I care. She always hated my guts anyway. So? I cannot expect everyone on the planet to like me and, anyway, I do not need a babysitter because I am not Heather Wilson, Mr. Wilson's mentally retarded daughter. I am intelligent enough and can take care of myself just fine without any help from Debbie Tracy, thank you very much.
If I did everything your lousy script says my life would be such a mess. Just look at the mess of my life as evidence of what lousy script writers you are. Why would I do all these stupid things? Only because you wrote this garbage into the script because it certainly does not make any sense in terms of my best interests.
