That's what my class of 8 year old Junior Thugs suggested I do with the little lying carwreckin' beotch.
It's really tempting to pass off her name and address with a request that their older brothers hit that crib if they need something to steal.
But I shan't.
I'm just gonna pretend My Name Is Earl, have faith in karmic debt, and try not to feel just bitter and a-fucked about the whole mess.
Like I said, it could have been lots worse. And I gotta keep my naturally half-empty brain turned towards the full part of this glass.