MY MOM : Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. But what’s meant to be will always be. Maybe it’s for the best, anyway. You’re so young.

GRANT: I told you. But seriously, Ally, that really sucks. Are you okay? He doesn’t have any, like, naked pictures of you or anything, does he? Because that happened to this one friend of mine, Biscuit. Her ex-boyfriend posted all these pictures of her and her vibrator on the Internet.

MY BROTHER BRIAN: Do you want me to kick his ass?

* * * * * *

I stay in bed for two weeks. I skip school for the first three days, then finally drag myself to my classes, where I struggle to take notes and not throw up. Even though I’m not eating anything, I still constantly feel nauseated. I don’t shower. I wear the same rotation of outfits every four days, which mostly consists of jeans and sweatshirts. I don’t wear makeup. I definitely don’t brush my hair. What’s the point? It’s not clean. I sleep. A lot. I watch TV. A lot.

On day fifteen, at around five o’clock in the afternoon, Jasmine and Simone stage an intervention. I’ve spent the day watching Lifetime movies, looking through my old high school yearbooks, and deciding what I’ll do if I never get married.

Alternate life plan:

Get some sort of adventurous photography gig making tons of money where I’ll be traveling around so much that I won’t have time for love. Think Lisa Ling on that one adventure show. Only she’s a broadcaster, and I’d be taking pictures. And she’s engaged. Or married. Whatever. The specifics of this plan don’t actually matter, since any of this happening is not all that likely, due to the fact that I don’t plan on getting out of bed. Ever.

“This room is really starting to stink,” Jasmine says pointedly, looking at my hair, clothes, and all-around disgusting appearance. I’m still brushing my teeth, at least, since I figure if I’m going to die alone and dirty, I might as well keep my dignity by not being toothless as well.

“I don’t smell anything,” I say. I’m lying on my bed in the same flannel pants and Syracuse College sweatshirt that I’ve slept in for the past six days. I’m watching Gracie’s Choice, this really good Lifetime movie starring Kristen Bell.

“That’s because it’s you that smells,” Jasmine says, pulling the remote out of my hand and turning off the TV. “And everyone knows you can’t smell yourself.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “I can smell myself perfectly well. And I smell just fine, thank you very much. Simone?” I look to her for confirmation.

“Um”—she looks back and forth from me and Jasmine nervously—“well, Ally, it’s not that you smell bad exactly, it’s just that—”