I can’t wait to be fucked by someone who can find my G spot.

You never could, ha hah!

I stare at my phone at the texts I had apparently sent. This always happens to me after a few bottles. I leave my body and text things I don’t remember. It was even worse before cell phones, because I would actually yell these things, on the landline or in people’s faces, and I still do that sometimes. I look back down at my phone and there’s another text in the type box, a text I had apparently written. Without thinking, I click send.

I hope you rot in hell you evil cunt.

EMILY.

Beau Rubidoux’s Instagram quickly becomes my raison d’être. I begin to mold my days around it. One morning, there’s a blurry photo of Beau and a woman whose handle is Vagablonde outside of a neon-lit taco truck. I saw on Instagram that Gen Z thinks blonde is “cheugy.” I make a mental note to cyberstalk this cheugy woman. Later that evening, the photo is gone.

He deletes a lot, which irks me, but luckily he’s an avid poster. If he was anyone else, I might see the overposting as a turnoff, consider him a toxic narcissist. I might find his abundance of front-facing selfies emasculating, his use of emojis evidence of a lack of critical faculties. But because I’m convinced he is divine intervention, I let these would-be turnoffs slide. I find it generous that he is letting people into his life, showing us his face from all angles and lighting conditions. It’s admirable, really. He doesn’t have to be so open with laypeople like me.

My main concern is all the women he photographs late at night, often gone in the morning, as though they never existed. I feel gaslit. I am both envious of these women, because of their proximity to Beau in the dark hours, and worried one day I will be one—poof, gone, discarded.

I know I’m behaving strangely.

My instinct is to cite my Scorpio possessiveness, but my therapist would probably cite my OCD. I read on Instagram that being in love causes a sudden rise in dopamine, which triggers an increase in cortisol and norepinephrine, which in turn causes a sharp drop in serotonin, and the new serotonin levels match those with OCD. So being in love gives everyone OCD.

Is it possible I love Beau? I’ve never met him. But in high school I was in love with Edward Scissorhands, and I never least Beau isn’t a fictional character.