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Exhibit C. It's truly criminal.

Hello. Hi. And welcome to my favorite murder. The mini-sode.

We read you your stuff back to you and attempt to pass the time and that's it.

Do you want me to go first? Sure. Let's see. The subject line of this is Love at 19.

A good old fashioned hello. Okay. So you know we love you and you keep us

saying during these crazy times, thank you, getting to it. When I was 19 years old,

I had a, I had a, in quotes boyfriend who thought he was so cool for being a

freshman mechanical engineer student in my small New Mexico hometown of 8,000

nerds and like zero women. In parentheses, seriously, the motto at our school for the girls was

the odds are good, but the goods are odd. Yeah. Love that. I love that saying.

But, but I was 19 stupid and enamored with a narcissist. So things were right on track.

Been one right. We've all lived it. One autumn evening, we were at a house party across the river.

My boyfriend was acting like a jerk and flirting with another girl. So I left.

Woo. My poor little teenage heart was ravaged already. And when I didn't hear from him for the

rest of the night and into the next day, my life was pretty much over. Yeah. That sucks. Being a

teenager is the fucking worst. God, what a nightmare. Oh, but the worst was only yet to come. Oh,

when I got to work at the brewery the next day, some co-workers who were also at the house party

were talking loudly about the last night's events. And I was slightly listening in while

wrapping silverware into napkins. I frozen horror after my co-workers spilled about how she had to

...