I feel as though God has given me three talents in life; patience, creativity, and the ability to argue. I felt this third talent rise within me as I eagerly awaited for Darlene to finish talking;
"Oh my poor Chelsea! She has done nothing to deserve such abuse!", she says with a strong maternal passion.
"So she has done nothing to provoke him then?", I interject and give her a determined stare.
"Oh heavens no!" she cries, looking somewhat offended.
Darlene's daughter was being swirled about in a terror I like to call Emmit. The boyfriend had once again cheated on poor Chelsea Brackish. My sympathy for her situation exited my heart around the fifth time he did this, and the eighth time she hurled herself back into his arms. Much like a drug addict Chelsea needed her daily doses of Emmit to get on with her day. A phone call was just enough to keep her withdrawal symptoms at bay, although between contact she acts like a miserable wreck. There's a huge high when he comes around and then turmoil when they fight and break up. Disaster is a word not harsh enough to describe her situation. I haven't yet found the right one, but I have a feeling I have to get creative. Many friends have tried to help her countless times, but its no use kicking a dead dog. She needs help. It's quite sad actually. Although sadness has turned to feeling sorry, then turned to animosity, then to not giving a shit. Ah whatever, I'll do what I can.
"Chelsea needs some help Darlene", I say finally.