Frankenstein was the real monster.
Or should I call him Iago by name, more befitting of his betrayal.
And I, the unseeing Othello, have poisonous rumors spilled into my ear like the drunk king of Denmark.
Filling me with such rage, I cut all ties with the libidinous Desdemona.
Her debauchery is nothing but surprising, especially when she claimed to bind herself to no other.
Should I be astonished by such act?
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