A certain Innerbunny character (who shall remain nameless) wrote a very, very disgusting, yet very, very true (but very, very disgusting) account of one of life’s little pleasures today.

Who knew pus could even collect down there? Wouldn’t that be akin to, like, digging for gold or something? Like, what if you brought up knee cartilage or something?

A close friend of mine (who shall remain nameless for our purposes here) was dating this dude, and dude turned out to be BatShitCrazy -- like, as in, she had a law enforcement pal look up the deets on this guy to find that dude had stalking and battery charges all over the Midwest, right!?!? Yeah, so after blowing him off all weekend, he calls her earlier this week to give her the guilt about not wanting anything to do with his sorry ass, and what does he do? The ol' suicide bit, which she didn't buy into, obviously, because this is a conversation she had with another one of her friends about it:
To which we laaaaaaaaughed and laaaaaaaughed ...

Now, I've had people in my day try to pull that with me -- one a particularly odious little troll who had pretty bad renal disease, the others a close friend from high school and Mother (!) -- and I used to get all freaked out about it; I mean, they say you can't tell when someone's really serious about doing it, so you shouldn't take any chances.

Yeah, well, in my experience*, you CAN tell when someone's not serious about it. Know how? When THEY'RE TRYING TO GUILT YOU INTO TALKING THEM OUT OF IT, that's how. There's a reason people who're grieving suicide victims say they never saw it coming -- because the victim never let on that they were going to do it. If you've got someone flaunting it your face, they got problems, all right, but the will to live ain't one of them.