First of all, Parisa. You always make yourself the victim. No matter what is going on. For the last three-plus years, I’ve had to bite my tongue while you feel sorry for yourself because no guys are ever gonna like you, your sister got into Yale, you were supposed to get laser hair removal and then lockdown happened, blah blah blah blah. Cry me a river! Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to scream at you to SHUT UP? Do you know how much willpower it takes in those moments to nod and smile sympathetically and pretend like I care about your problems? Do you even realize how easy you have it? You accuse me of having beauty privilege? Wow. Look around. Look at your house. Look at the cars your parents drive. Look at your clothes and your high-thread-count sheets and your flat-screen TVs that look like picture frames in every room and your woodburning pizza oven and your black-bottom swimming pool. I could go on and on. You are so fucking privileged that you have to search for ways to make other people feel bad.

Do you want to know why I became your friend freshman year? Because I could tell you had this desperate need to be liked. And I think maybe the reason I was never able to make other friends was because I didn’t think you would be able to handle it. That’s probably why I never pursued things with Wes sooner. I felt like you were this rescue puppy that I always had to take care of. How could I stop being your friend when me being your friend validated your entire existence?

It’s so like you to get all pissy because I accused you of doing something that was wrong. Get off your high horse for once! You didn’t get mad at me because guys like me or because you think I’m pretty. You got mad at me because I pointed out the fact that you’re throwing yourself at your sister’s boyfriend and that I think that’s MESSED UP. But, like I said, you had to go and make yourself the victim. How dare I accuse you of not being a perfect human?

To hear you tell me that I don’t know how hard your life is—at a time when my moms are breaking their backs trying to get our rent paid—is embarrassing. Just like that time you dragged us to the ER because you thought you were having an allergic reaction to the shrimp they cooked for you. Classic. Just like when you cried because you couldn’t handle being drunk and high and then I’m the one who gets escorted home and made to feel like a criminal in front of my parents.