Page 8 of I Hope This Finds You Well

I pour myself another drink and resolve to change my profile picture to my face. I take a few selfies, only they all look weird. I’m either smiling too much or not smiling enough, looking too hard at the camera or not at all.

Finally, I settle on one that seems okay. I change the picture. Then I upload my real name.

Gregory said I should make friends with my coworkers, and I have to start somewhere. I type their names into the search bar—some are already in my recent history from previous creeping.

I hit follow on so many.

I go to pour myself another glass, but somehow the bottle is empty.

That’s okay. I’m ready for gin anyway.

The olives are all the way in the fridge—I’ll have to go without.

The most depraved thing I do when I’m drinking is search for men who are #lookingforlust. I don’t do it for actual sex reasons, but to judge the countless men posting underwhelming pictures of themselves. Their lone penises sit sadly between their legs, not so much a prize as a participation trophy. I know looking at them doesn’t make me any better, but it doesfeelthat way.

A banner appears on my screen, notifying me that Armin has followed me back. Maybe he and I could be work friends. He’s also Persian, and I’m pretty sure we’re similar ages. Maybe, if I think back to when he started at the office four years ago, there were a couple times that he tried to be friendly to me. Unfortunately, I was already deep inmy rut. Once, he came over to my desk and asked if I’d tried poutine from the shop across from our building, but I was too nervous to start a conversation because Charlie—the person who used to hold Caitlin’s job—was listening in, which made it all so embarrassing. And one afternoon he pointed at my headphones and asked what I was listening to, but I was caught off guard because the true answer would’ve been an audiobook about souls. I didn’t have it in me to explain that I’m not, like, into souls in a weird way, more just unhealthily obsessed with whatotherpeople think happens when we die, but also too logical to believe any of it, yet still hopeful that I’ll find some explanation that will make what happened feel okay. So I replied, “Just a random thing,” and, unintentionally, had a tone in my voice.

I do know that both of our moms come from Tehran. Unfortunately, this discovery was unveiled during a diversity initiative that Gregory organized for the office. We were both quietly enraged that Gregory lumped us and a few others into a token group for a Q&A session to “educate the office.” After the ordeal, Gregory praised himself for personally hiring us both, even though I’m certain during my interview he had no idea I was anything other than white. After that, Armin and I never mentioned anything about our Iranian backgrounds again.

And I’m not even sure weshouldspeak about it, or if Armin even believes me. I grew up with so little contact with anything Persian outside of my family, I have a hard time telling which parts of my upbringing are cultural and which are justmy family. I remember how seen I felt when I was twelve and we visited another Iranian family, and they also had a watering can on their toilet tank. I can’t exactly go through the logistical nightmare of bringing Armin to see my bathroom to prove it.

I scroll through his account: photos from concerts in crowded bars, some of his impressive sneaker collection, and a few Twitch clips of some video game.

I turn on the TV to playThe Bachelorettein the background. I like feeling like I’m part of Bachelor Nation. I’m a part of something.

I realize I’m not. It happened so fast the way I made my life.

A banner appears on my phone again: Caitlin Joffrey would like to follow me. Maybe things are actually okay then? Maybe we’re not theenemies I thought we were. I scroll through her grid, drinking in all her wannabe influencer vibes: her at the beach with an Etsy blanket cape and mug, her monthly goals written on the page of an open journal in sparkly cursive, smoothies topped with artfully sliced pieces of fresh fruit, her boyfriend’s hand holding hers. Always just his hand or torso. That’s for the best; this way I can picture him having a mild Guy Fieri aesthetic. As I go deeper into her timeline, I find photos of her friends. They do trips together, nights out with matching shirts, spa days, wine and paint nights.

Do they just, like, text each other whenever? I swallow to dislodge the thing caught in my throat.

Another notice: Garret would like to follow me. Somewhere beneath my brain’s cozy booze blanket, a needling thought worms its way to the surface. This timing might not be coincidence.

But I’ll just post a picture to my story of myself laughing. I can be fun.

I’m zooming in on a picture Armin posted over a year ago of art he commissioned for the gamer fandom he’s into. I accidentally hit the heart. And oh my fuck with the deep like.

Maybe it was meant to be? I’m sure it’s fine. This is how people make friends. I should write him a message.

I type:Looks like you have a lot of fun with that game.

I unsend. Weird shit to say to someone.

I type:It’s my birthday and I’m lonely.

I pass out.

Hangovers Are a WIP

The day after my thirty-third birthday, I wake up with a stiffness in my limbs so intense I’m certain I actually died and my body has begun rigor mortis. The sun is far too bright, and my brain bangs against my skull. Pain seems to reach into me from another realm. It’s like everything—all the booze, the workdays, and a lifetime of angst—has taken literal bites out of me.

In short, it’s not a great way to wake up. I clear my throat in a failed attempt to clear the sawdust coating the inside of it.

Then last night comes rushing back.

I remember running into Miley. Did I scar her? Again?

I roll sideways, and the cool corner of my phone presses against my temple. I try not to think about all the cancer waves it must’ve seeded in my brain as I slept. The damn thing looks like a little shit; fingerprints dance all over it like it’s been partying. On the inside, I’m sure it’s laughing at all the things it’s seen me do. It deserves to.