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I tried my best, but psychologically I can't handle it any longer. Your lies and cheating and promiscuity destroyed our marriage. You told me at the beginning that you had been out of control and from the many stories that you have told me and the fact that I was the third guy to fuck you in a three-week period more than substantiate your claims. I should have seen the red flags, but I was blinded by infatuation. I have never been able to accept that you were so easy. But you continued with your lustful lifestyle during our seven-year separation. Even Victor's mother at the Vermillion told me that I had to let you go while he and his friends were broadcasting throughout Brownsville, even to the bloggers who included you and him hugging each other tightly in a photo, that the two of you were having an affair. During this last election Machado's anonymous contributors never quit reminding his thousands of readers of you placing a pair of horns on my head screwing him. How many friends with benefits were there over the five years before you met the Laredo Loser? You're the type of woman who can't go long without being with a man. You proved that between your two marriages. Habits started at 15 are difficult to break. But for me the unrelenting mental torture has been you flinging yourself into the arms of the Laredo Loser. You call the year-long relationship a "romance" during which you traveled with him. He promised to free you from working, put a roof over your head and give you a ring. He introduced you to his son and his family. Nobody does this in a serious "romance" without sexual intercourse. You have denied any physical involvement while you were fucking me and lying to him. Nobody would buy your story for a second. Then there are the mongrels, two of the ugliest mutts who have ever walked the earth. You know how much I hate them, but you mock me by telling your friends that you would choose them over the father of your son. I hope the laughs have been worth the consequences. If I suffer from manic depression, you have greatly exacerbated my condition. I can be fine, but at any moment of every day my battered brain is filled with the image of you sucking someone's dick, getting dog-styled, sitting on a fool's prick, having your pussy eaten and then opening wide as your cunt is filled with cum. And then bragging about these romps afterwards. How many guys when you were drunk or on ecstasy have escorted you to the backseat of their cars, up the stairs of a hotel or into their apartments and had their way for you? How many different guys have you fucked, Olivia? It's a question I ask myself a dozen times a day. Speculating on this figure is a very depressing math. This is the story that should appear on the internet with the infamous picture of your right hand flattened against Victor's belt buckle and his right arm firmly squeezing your shoulder. I keep that photo close to remind me that you ended our marriage so you could experience ribald moments like this one. I believe there is little chance that Mick would hang this photo from his bedroom wall. With the exception of me, nobody knows the real Olivia. 

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