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Dear “I Married A Mobster”,

You knew what you were getting yourself into so don’t cry for me Argentina.  Really, so the guy that sold you into slavery, you call him when you escape then do coke and run the casinos for him for two years?  Really?  I know you were only 15 ½, but come on.  I’ve been that age.  I had a complicated home life.  

Then, instead of calling your mom, after escaping from the sex prison you call the dude who totally sold you to the sex slavers.  There’s not that much benefit of the doubt in the world.  I guess I just had girlfriends that I knew I could call whenever my mom saw fit to throw me out.  I know how traumatic that experience can be.  To not feel wanted.  When you’re in trouble and to have no solid base.  I get it.  But I also didn’t hang out with pimps.  But still…

Then you marry the hitman that teaches you how to shoot and, in surgical detail, how to murder a man.  But it’s fun swimming in pools, I get it.  Your parents did you a great disservice by trying to lock you up instead of taking you to a therapist.  My mom, at least, took me to the therapist.  Wait, no…actually she called the police on me before we went to the therapist.  Excuse me…carry on.

But I’m glad you have your life together now… whatever your name was lady from Vegas.  Your story sucked.  But there were some moments when I just felt like, you liked things more than information and now you wanna act like you were too afraid when you knew what was going on.   

I mean, his kid tried to strangle you and smother your kid with a pillow… what else do you need to try to get out of that shit?  

Anyway, your story touched me.


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