Red Opium.

Ever ask a professor at your school if she'd look at a cut mark veeery high on your leg and tell you if she thought it was infected? (And she lied and told you, oh, she doesn't know what an infection looks like (wtf? everybody knows what an infection looks like), go to the nurse, and in the middle of this discussion, some other, more important person came to the door and the prof had to tell her just another minute with me, etc, and then when you left, the other person went in there and the prof said, "Sorry about that.")(Sorry about what? The pissy little screwed up nutcase bitch that is me? Or sorry for having to wait? 'Cause I'm sure inclined to think it was the former . . .)

I feel so alone.