There's a girl in my English class, swear to God, that is Life Issues incarnate. She's every single depressed lump of emo wrapped into one rather large ball. It's quite frightening. If she doesn't tell us all at least three horrible revelations from her neverending supply of uncloseted skeletons, she scrambles to make up new ones.
Although I barely speak to her enough to be polite, I know how old she was when she lost her virginity, how many men she's slept with at the ripe old age of 18 (a LOT), what it's like to get an AIDS test, what types of medications she's on, why she's on those medications, and oh, by the way, she has a drinking problem.
If she keeps trying to turn me into her therapist, I may develop one myself.
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