He was irritated, she could tell, and she said not to worry, but I have actually slept with 69 people, as of this day, June 9, and can you feel the syphilis eating away at your own brain?
Myself, I have less thoughts these days. All the better as I deliver this morose letter to the front door of a fraternity house, to a boy who cares less than he should because he does not know any better.
As she stood on the front steps of the house, contemplating his stupidity, it suddenly occurred to her she was once in his shoes, on the receiving end of an over-zealously maudlin letter, which she hardly cared enough to read; she half listened as her roommate rattled off pages of complaints, heartbreak, and insult, and might have even laughed. Ineffective, the letter ended up in a trash can under her desk. This was but a fleeting thought when he came to the door to accept the missive, and she had hardly a regret when she turned to leave him to his poor choices and to comfort her friend in a night steeped in cheap whiskey.