Bummer, man. Listen to this one.

An interesting aspect of human social relations is the notion that when one is feeling particularly downtrodden or beaten up by life, our urge is to make the poor soul feel better by telling him or her an even worse possible scenario. It very well could have started with Gertie, the cafeteria lady in grade school, who would scream that children were starving in --insert Third World country here-- when we turned up our noses at the grey mass labeled "American Chop Suey."
This is certainly the case when I go through a break up. If the guy cheated, I'll get "Oh yeah? I knew this girl whose boyfriend cheated on her with her own MOTHER--then they got married and moved in RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO HER." Or perhaps if things simply didn't work out, I'll hear "Yeah, my cousin went through the same thing, the relationship kinda fell apart...then she found out he was addicted to internet porn and call girls, and he gave her an STD that caused her eyebrows to fall out."
I suppose that it's supposed to be a slight variation of "count your blessings, you stoopid whitey full of entitlement and satellite TV". But it never makes me feel better. Instead, I run out to the health clinic and sweat bullets until I get the test results, or call my mother and casually ask, how's the love life with dad?