Queue this up first. Everything hits different with the right soundtrack.
This is stupid. You know this is stupid. What exactly are you expecting?
I’m looking at myself in the mirror, my right arm rubbing my left arm over my still-empty stomach.
Liz said to dress cute, so I had put on as close an approximation of cute as I could manage. A cheap grey slip with silver sequins and a neon yellow sports bra underneath. The contrast looks rave-attire enough and, looking at the mirror, objectively, I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.
I have no fucking idea. What does trying too hard even mean?
Which has to be better than not trying hard enough.
I spent three hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling as my phone vibrated next to me.
This was the most attention it had gotten since the first day Camila transferred ownership to me and her contacts didn’t yet realize she had a new number. Where everyone else sees a cellphone shifting to one side, it looked to me like my phone was bouncing out of control with a flurry of activity it couldn’t comprehend.
I checked it once at hour one. Then three more times at hour two. Then, once every ten minutes at hour three. Could I relate to the next cluster of messages in the chat?
I couldn’t. I couldn’t even relate to anyone specific from class, because these girls and their extended friend group didn’t chat about class. They chatted about TV shows I only have peripheral knowledge of, who won what game of which sport, guess who cheated on Becca with Nicky, but Nicky is actually Nicolas, not Nicole, and Becca was a bitch anyway-
I can’t keep up.
