I thought I liked her, thought we were getting along well enough, but it was just Stockholm Syndrome; I am livid with displeasure at the egregious behavior of my bellicose, belligerent houseguest. How a grown young woman with a nearly-fulltime job in legal services can be without a place to live is beyond me. I'm a straight shooter, but her words are like bullets, and I'm getting caught in the crossfire. She calls me the trash compactor and says I only exist to finish her leftovers. She tells me the same stories over and over and I can't say anything about it, lest I provoke her, but if I even start to touch on a subject I've brought up before, it's all, "YOU ALREADY TOLD ME THAT!! Do we HAVE to talk about this again?!" And don't even get her started on politics...but there's no need, because she's already talking about them, going on and on about "Barry" and how freakin' great "Barry" is doing. She had a revelation recently, after a long night of dissociative-induced visions; Mitt Romney appeared to her in the shape of a goat and apparently scared her straight, straight Democrat ticket this election cycle. How does such a tender, delicate flower unfurl to become an invasive weed? The answer eludes me.