My groin felt like it was on fire yesterday so I snuck to the clinic terrified, and stupidly vented in our squad chat. Within hours, half of town was whispering I had some filthy STI. Except the doc just said it’s severe dermatitis from the fiberglass in that curb couch we dragged into the basement Friday? I’m relieved my junk isn't falling off, but my chest hurts from how fast they mocked me.

Take a deep breath and apply your soothing cream: your junk is completely fine, even if your faith in humanity just took a direct hit. Fiberglass in your nether regions isn't an STI; it’s basically taking a nap on microscopic glass needles. Pure bad luck courtesy of a cursed curbside sofa. But small-town group chats never let facts get in the way of cheap locker-room drama. That betrayal stings way worse than the rash, and you have every right to feel gutted. Now hand them their karma. Drop a message straight into the chat: "Plot twist, detectives: it’s severe fiberglass dermatitis from the couch we hauled Friday. Wash your clothes and enjoy the phantom itch, because you all touched it too." Watching them frantically inspect their own skin will be pure poetry. Once the dust settles, take note of who laughed the loudest. Crusty couches can be dumped on the curb—and sometimes, low-grade friends belong right beside them.