Hazing was a constant discussion when I was a teenager. Most high schools covered it before freshman year as far as I knew.
I don’t understand words that aren’t a part of my world. I tried to call a dermatologists’ office yesterday to see if they took my insurance and wound up hanging up on the receptionist because I couldn’t understand what number I was supposed to read off of my insurance card. I went three years without paying my taxes once. I didn’t address my student debt for five years after graduation.
“Does drinking alcohol make passing a drug test better or worse?”
As a body snarker, I feel that it’s important I share my side.
Do you even know my last name? Now that I think of it, you don’t even know where I live because we always watch TV at your house and I always pick you up before we go out.
You get a phone call at midnight on a Wednesday. It’s your best friend. She’s sobbing. Her boyfriend of a year has ended their relationship because it just wasn’t working for him anymore.
What I’m getting at here is that we have to help each other because we’re in a particular bathroom situation as women.
“No. This is a boundary that benefits both of us because I won’t resent you and no one likes to be resented. God bless.”
I hope that the boyf likes what he sees; rough edges and all.
Lifting a car off a baby is good. Going back into a burning building over and over again to save people even though you are not a fireman is heaven.