“
Halfway through the day, Megan started dicking around on the internet. She
made her browser window as small as she could, paused for a second, and then
looked up “Carrie Wilkins.” She found Carrie’s website, and on it, this bio:
Hi, my name’s Carrie. I’m 26. I make things. I paint and I write, but mostly I
design. I like to make things beautiful, or creative. I make my own food and I’m
trying to grow my own beets. A lot of people around me seem unhappy and I
don’t understand why. I freelance because I know I’d go insane if I couldn’t
make my own schedule—I believe variety is the zest of life. I know I want a dog
someday soon, and sometimes I make lunch at 3 a.m.
I believe in the power of collaboration, and I’d love to work with you!
What a total asshole. What does she have, some kind of a pact with Satan?
The picture next to Carrie’s bio had some kind of heavy filter on it that made
it look vintage, and she had a friendly but aloof look on her face. She was
flanked on both sides by plants and was wearing an oxford shirt with fancy
shorts and had a cool necklace. It was an outfit, for sure, like all of Carrie’s
clothes were outfits, which Megan always thought of as outdated or something
only children did.
The website linked to a blog, which was mostly photos of Carrie doing
different things. It didn’t take too long to find the picture of her with the llama
with a caption about how she and her boss got it from a homeless guy.
And then just products. Pictures and pictures of products, and then little
captions about how the products inspired her.
Motherfucker, thought Megan. She doesn’t get it at all. It was like looking at
an ad for deodorant or laundry soap that made you feel smelly and like you’d
been doing something wrong that the person in the ad had already figured out,
but since it was an ad, there was no real way to smell the person and judge for
yourself whether or not the person stank, and that was what she hated, hated,
hated most of all.
I make things, gee-wow. You think you’re an artist? Do you really thing this
blog is a representation of art, that great universalizer? That great transmigrator?
This isolating schlock that makes me feel like I have to buy into you and your
formula for happiness? Work as a freelance designer, grow beets, travel, have
lots of people who like you, and above all have funsies!
“Everything okay?” asked Jillian.
“Yeah, what?”
“Breathing kind of heavy over there, just making sure you were okay and
everything.”
“Oh, uh-huh, I’m fine,” said Megan.
“It’s not . . . something I’m doing, is it?”
“What? No. No, I’m fine,” said Megan.
How could someone not understand that other people could be unhappy?
What kind of callous, horrible bullshit was that to say to a bunch of twenty-yearolds, particularly, when this was the time in life when things were even more
acutely painful than they were in high school, that nightmare fuck, because now
there were actual stakes and everyone was coming to grips with the fact that
they’re going to die and that life might be empty and unrewarding. Why even
bring it up? Why even make it part of your mini-bio?
”
”