Somebody Se-date Me
AUGUST 25, 2023I’m 15 and I’m working my first job. I make twenty dollars an hour and I get paid in cash, I don’t want to learn how to pay taxes. My bosses are old men. They smoke cigarettes like my parents. They have wrinkles, and beer bellies, and they think I’m hot. They want to touch me and be alone with me. I think they want to have sex with me, but they want to make sure I won’t tell. I’m 15, I make twenty dollars an hour, and my parents are so proud.
I’m 16 and I’m pregnant, and nobody knows. My grandmother is dead and I thank God. I have 5,000 followers on Instagram. They don’t know that I just lost my virginity or that soon, I’ll have a fateful miscarriage. They know that I look so good in my underwear and they know that they want more. They don’t ask questions because they don’t want my sad secrets. They double tap, they fantasize, they try not to think about their girlfriends getting pregnant or their grandmothers being dead.
I’m 16 and I live alone. My apartment was a birthday present, and my stalker, Ivan, wants to know the address. I’m planning a trip to Malibu to see the boy that I like and I’m grappling with suicidal thoughts. I find a flight for $426.65, I fill in the white boxes with Mom’s Amex and I don’t want to kill myself anymore. Aiden is coming over. Aiden loves me, he’s loved me for almost a year now. He doesn’t want me to kill myself, but he doesn’t want me to go to Malibu tomorrow either. He wants me to love him back, but I’m 16 and I’m unsure if I do.
I’m 17 and I want plastic surgery. It’s really easy to get and I think it will have lasting effects on my happiness. If I bring Mom’s Amex and my fake ID, I can have any procedure I want. They can take all the fat out of my body and put it somewhere else. If I don’t want it somewhere else, they will put it in a biohazard bin with the subcutaneous fat tissue of mommies who have been made over and their 17-year-old daughters who brought a borrowed Amex to the consultation. The only thing I want more than plastic surgery is a boyfriend.
I’m 17 and I live in New York. Dad wants me to get a job. I still don’t know how to pay taxes, and I’m not ready to learn how. I have 20,000 followers on Instagram. My followers hate me and I hate them back. I had to leave Mom’s Amex in Seattle. I am sad all of the time. Men with blue checks and courage are lingering in my DM requests. They think I’m hot. They want to touch me, and be alone with me, and I think they want to have sex with me, but I don’t reply to their messages. I spend all of my time alone, thinking about being fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, or twenty. Thinking about how Malibu could fix me if only I had $426.65, and how I should have gotten plastic surgery when I still had Mom’s Amex.
I’m 19 and he’s 21, and we are so in love. I’ve met the man that I’m going to marry. I don’t need Instagram anymore, I have zero followers and one boyfriend. He’s a real man and a real New Yorker. He’s going to take me above 14th Street, and he’s going to let me move into his SoHo loft, and I’m going to learn how to bake challah and give a great blowjob. I’m only 19 and he’s only 21, but we’ve already contemplated marriage. He thinks I’m so perfect, and so young, and so stupid, and so great for him. I don’t need plastic surgery anymore, and I hope he’s right.
I’m 20 and I’m in California, my flight was only $293.33. My boyfriend broke up with me and I want to blame him for everything bad in my life. I’m back in Malibu, but only for a funeral. Aiden is here and he wants me to love him back, but I’m sad and I’m scared, and I want to get back together with my boyfriend because what if he dies next? I ask my best friend, Max, how I can become more beautiful in the meantime. He tells me to lift my hair seven shades lighter and do Daisy Keech’s "Quarantine Abs" until I black out. I want to black out. I have 356 followers now and they know some of my sad secrets. They still love me, and I love them back, and they can’t wait to see my quarantine abs.
I’m 21 and I agree with Taylor Swift. I want to be fun like the girl my boyfriend was fucking while I was in California. Instead, I’m riddled with anxiety, and I talk to myself on PhotoBooth because I can’t find a therapist. If I had a therapist, I wonder what she would say. She might inquire about the Amex, and my sex life, and death, and my bosses, and my Instagram followers, and my beauty standards, and my tax resistance, and what it all really means. But, I would find a way to trace it all back to the boyfriend because I want to blame him for everything bad in my life. I need to blame someone.
I’m 22 and I have a plan. I’ll walk to my boyfriend’s apartment. I’ll convince myself that on the other side of a long, hard, conversation; the boys with blue checks will still be waiting for me. I’ll find a therapist. I’ll learn how to pay taxes. I’ll pray for my grandmother and my Malibu boy. I’ll tell my parents about my bosses. I’ll tell Aiden I did love him. I’ll tell everyone on the internet my sad secrets, and I’ll hope that they still love me back. I’ll get a job, an Amex in my name, and my very own SoHo loft. I’ll bake loaves of challah, I’ll be so blonde, and I’ll never give another blowjob. I’ll be so happy, and so free, and so young; and my parents and my followers will all be so proud of me. I’ll listen to Taylor Swift and my new therapist, and I’ll hope that their voices can drown out the one in my head that tells me, "Things were so much better when you were fifteen."