Her crazy stories were juxtaposed best by her childlike nature. She could curse like a sailor, but somehow it never seemed quite as vulgar as she would have liked, given her high, squeaky voice. She vacillated somewhere between experienced broad and precocious innocent. Her age was indeterminate. Not quite a beauty, she possessed bright eyes and a welcoming smile that made one think she’d never seen tragedy in all her years. She was a good sport: eager to please and ready to give all of herself to someone who cared. But what no one knew, well, save her closest friend, was that she spent most of every 24-hour cycle in a lonely depression so profound that tears had long stopped dripping down her cut glass cheeks years ago.