One of my groupmates is genuinely terrifying. She’s a mom with a voice that channels pure Miss Trunchbull energy. Style-wise, she’s immaculate: bright clothes, impeccably flat-ironed hair, and those high-end shoes that make you question the entire fashion industry.
But she’s also that person—the one who relentlessly interrogates you about your personal life, and snaps at you to stop doodling the moment a lecture slows down.
I am so intimidated by this woman that if I were taking a dump in a restroom stall with a broken lock and she accidentally walked in, I would literally stand up, apologize to her, and just keep pooping.
Eleven. More. Weeks.
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