Take your pick.

K—, whose Dad didn't want to learn my name because we'd break up eventually.

K—, who would pretend to cheat on me with T— for laughs, and leave me voicemails full of panting.

L—, who'd break up with me three times a week, and kept me enslaved to my phone.

L—, who cheated on me the first night I worked at summer camp. It'd been the longest we'd been away from each other.

T—, who gave me a sad, knowing look the night she agreed to be my girlfriend.

T—, whose ex tried to stab me with a knife. They're back together.

M—, whose first boyfriend dumped her after the first time they had sex, and kept begging for it from me.

M—, who kept hitting me when I said we would wait.

J—, whose Mom kidnapped her and brought her to New Zealand. She never saw her Dad again.

J—, whose Mom became a prostitute to pay for their apartment.

J—, telling me about the sores, the scabs, the oozing—down there.

J—, who wasn't made to live long. She made sure of that.

N—, who could die at any moment from a heart condition.

N—, who would couldn't feel anything unless it hurt.

N—, who laid in my bed, and when I wasn't around, laid in my roommate's.

S—, raped by her last boyfriend.

S—, at the hospital, because she stabbed her leg with gardening shears.

S—, describing her last boyfriend's penis with something like love.

And me. What the hell is wrong with me?