My sweet little poptart Ruslana, "dead" at 20

Shit Shit Shit. I REALLY didn't want to have to throw her off that balcony, but come on, what else could I fucking do? She was calling Lynne for Christ's sake, and you know how, what can I say, fragile? fruitcake? fucking off her meds? Lynne can get. All she'd need is to hear my Russkie Poontang calling from our undisclosed Wall Street Love Nest location with all the fucking deets. I taught her her one word of English. Vice. You should have heard her. In that little baby voice. Vice. Vice. I loved it when she played stewardess on Air Force Two. Coffee Tea or Ruslana, oh shit. Give me two sugars, bitch. Oh well, up and over. Over and out. Roger that, Boris.