Grounded

It’s autumn, it’s gray, it’s cold. Someone at a party gave me their virus and now I’m stuck at home, coughing while everyone else is at Watergate getting wasted. I had plans. I wanted to go out. But here I am.

The Useless Web sends me to random pointless websites I’d never visit otherwise. I waste an hour clicking through. I look at old photos of Lindsay Lohan from before everything got weird—back when I thought she was cute. It hits different looking back. Steam’s having a sale where forty-euro games are five bucks. I buy a bunch of stuff I’ll never play and feel like I got a deal, which is enough when my brain’s full of phlegm.

I don’t do anything illegal. Last thing I need is cops confiscating my Winnie-the-Pooh laptop. I drink so much tea I taste like an herb garden. If I’m stupid enough to feel fine, I go to a trashy disco anyway. Probably won’t happen but sometimes it does.

Better move: invite someone over. Hot water bottles, melted cheese, Entourage on my laptop under blankets. If it’s someone I want and the warmth and proximity turns into sex—sweaty and rushed and desperate in that good way—that’s not a bad sick day. I could ask my grandfather if he wants to cover my modeling gigs next week. He’s got the figure. More realistically, I’m grateful I don’t have a boyfriend right now. Mary-Kate Olsen’s probably feeling the same thing.

The last one: I do this exact same thing whether I’m sick or not. That’s the depressing part. That’s what gets me.