Worry

by Alexandra Tanner

“I couldn’t live in the moldy house, I couldn’t live with Mommy and Daddy because they got sick of me, now you’re sick of me, and I’m sick of you—” “You’re sick of me?” I ask. I can hear myself squeak. “—You’re always making fun of me, you’re always making fun of everyone, you say horrible things and you don’t even notice, it’s so second-nature to you to just say whatever—you called Starlab gay once—to me—” “I know, but it is—sometimes there’s no other word—” “You, like, transcribe conversations you overhear in public, and you screenshot every text you get so you can make fun of it later, and you get mad about hypothetical situations that don’t exist, and you find an enemy everywhere you go, and you’re always on your phone, you don’t even fucking recycle, I can’t take it anymore.” Poppy stares at me. “Am I like that?” “Yes,” Poppy says. “I mean, obviously my experience of you isn’t you, and your idea of yourself isn’t you, and the self isn’t something that can ever be described by anyone, but.” “Okay,” I say. “You’re just talking to talk.” “I’m not. I’m talking to talk to my sister. And I’m not a meme, Jules, and your whole thing with being addicted to memes and the Internet and the mommies and all your miserable fucking irony is making me ill,” Poppy says, and she walks away.