Congratulations Morbid Life Coach!

After she finishes telling you about her incredibly fucking stupid problems, you'll roll your eyes and sigh.

"Well," you'll tell her, "life really is little more than a sequence of embarrassing events chained together that eventually terminate in one final disappointment."  You'll pause to see if she'll respond.  When she doesn't, you'll punctuate your sentence by saying: "Death."

She'll nod.

"So what do I do about that?"

You'll shake your head.

"You shouldn't be asking me for advice."

She'll nod.

"You should be killing yourself."

She'll smile up at you and nod.

"Thanks."  She'll get out of her chair and start for the door.  "I think I already knew that.  I just needed to hear it from somebody else."  As she slips through and out into the world she'll keep her head just inside to leave you with one last parting expulsion of mouth gas: "I'll be killing myself by driving into incoming traffic on the 10.  Watch for me on the evening news."

You'll wave goodbye to her.

"Die on fire, cunt."

Her tinny laugh will echo down the hallway.  As she leaves the building you'll begin quietly masturbating, thinking about her death, her corpse, and the panic her death will evoke in the public.  You'll orgasm as you imagine the anchor on the evening news mouthing the name of your life-coachee.  The whole sensation will remind you why you get up every morning and do this instead of a real job.

Congratulations Morbid Life Coach!