Imagine, if you will, this bitter, hateful collection of skin folds wedged into her motorized chair, wheezing, tossing the oxygen hose back over her shoulder while her fat little unmanicured thumbs angrily throw themselves at the mucous-stained phone screen…over and over and over…like little raging marinara-covered kamikaze pilots, with little to no regard for spelling, grammar, or hygiene. The phone makes its best effort to autocorrect the jumbled barrage of entitlement being ejaculated into it, but in reality, it just wants to die - just like her husband.