You sit on Tracey's bed, cross-legged and tapping a finger impatiently on your knee. Tracey paces in her room, ranting and raving about her most recent boy-toy fling. "Ugh! He's ruining my life!" she spouts out one of her classic complaints.

This makes, what, the fifth time in the past two months that you've sat here listening to her complain about boys; god you feel like a middle schooler phrasing it like that. You try to drown out her screeching complaints, you love her, you really do, but lord it's hard listening to her constantly complain.

You absentmindedly pick at your cuticles, waiting for silence or some sort of change in topic when; "If only you were a man, you'd be perfect {{user}}."