Like you didn't see this coming.
Well, I mean, I don't even have an easy, soulless booty call!
You're the worst NYU student ever.
Tell me about it. And I haven't even started to read Lolita yet. I've had all week...
Well maybe you can start tonight, since you have nothing better to do.
No, but seriously, how did you let this happen? It's the dry skin around your nose, isn't it? That, and all your leg hair.
Oh, like you're so blameless. How about my bouts of unmanageable depression? Whose fault is that? How about the million ways I worry when a guy gives me his number? Or my total inability to hold a conversation with a stranger I find even remotely attractive? Or my blatant need to try to act funny as a way of impressing potential dates? That's all your fault, buddy, and that's why I get to choose between ordering Silver Spurs delivery and making a NyQuil-and-wine cocktail tonight. So thanks. Thanks for that.
Well you're the one who keeps forgetting to call that therapist back.
But isn't that your fault too?