Megan kept talking. The way she thought she sounded was not the way she really sounded. Amanda stopped listening, because she could feel herself becoming offended in an impassioned way. The way Amanda saw it—kind of her one, strong philosophy in life—was that it was impossible to “explore the complications of human feeling,” as Megan was calling it, while you felt miserable. Those explorations were best left for times of reflection, when your judgment was not confused by the horrible lens of self-hatred. She knew this was not an original idea, but it didn’t need to be. The way she understood Megan was that Megan’s preoccupation was with these “baser” things—having stability, having a decent job, having health, having a group of people to support her. Amanda based this understanding on Megan’s monomaniacal preoccupation with “that asshole and her stupid fucking job,” “that asshole and his successful project,” “those assholes and their stupid clique,” “those fuckers and their homemade Tupperwares of kale.” If you see something you’re envious of—really genuinely envious of, not just that you admire—the only escape hatch from that feeling is to insult the object, to tart it up like an idiot and then parade it around as something ridiculous, but that was a hatch that just led to a deeper and more confusing layer of self-doubt and self-dislike. It was obvious and sad to Amanda, but not sad enough. Megan wasn’t paying her to listen to this. Amanda’s week had been hard, too, and she was just trying to relax with some friends, but since she was the only one who seemed to have any tolerance for Megan, Megan clung to her. And she knew that Megan thought insulting things about her, too, and that was the thing that fired her up.

“People think happiness is some kind of sign of complexity, but it’s not,” said Megan.

“Oh, do they?” said Amanda. “I always thought people mistook brooding as a sign of complexity.”

Megan gave her an I Dare You look.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” said Amanda.

Megan continued the look.

“Let me call your bluff and say this,” said Amanda. “There’s no one on this planet, not even my mother, who I like enough to stand around and soak up this selfish, whiny-baby bullshit from. A week? Ok, everyone has their weeks, but honestly I don’t even remember why we’re friends. This is miserable. I don’t know what I’m doing out here with you. There are people here who I don’t even know who I’d rather talk to than you right now. You seem to think you’re doing me a favor by hanging out with me. I find that laughable. I’d rather hang out with that guy,” she pointed to a white-faced slump-eyed guy in a beanie, “who looks like he might barf in my face, than hang out with you for another second. I don’t know how much more clear I can be. I was just trying to give you a pep talk and you started shitting all over me. You are unbelievably draining, you self-serving, shallow, talentless waste of time.”