Friday June 23, 10:39

When you’re sick nothing else in the goddamn world matters. Not your job. Not your friends. Not the laundry pile or the electric bill or the guy that’s left you on read for three days. Just pills and whimpering and Netflix. In and out of consciousness. Occasional scrolling. Someone you went to high school with just bought a house in Los Angeles. The world is on fire. There’s a cat that sits in a backpack while its owner skis down a hill. Someone you went to college with just got engaged. A politician was accused of rape. Sunday’s protest will be in République — it’s unclear who organized it but they want to work less and get paid more. A Russian militia leader is pissed at Putin. There are six different ways to make good ol’ fashioned macaroni and cheese. A North Korean managed to defect. The United States is in a fuck ton of debt. A baby otter sleeps on its mom’s belly. We’re running out of resources. Someone you went to grade school with is pregnant. The world is on fire.

Saturday June 24, 9:57

I woke up at ten. I’d been in and out of a delirious, fevered sleep for twenty-four hours. Eyes still closed I searched the bed for my phone but it had dropped to the floor in the night; the sound of it hadn’t even woken me. It was dead. I tried to go back to sleep but it was too uncomfortable, all of it, my body, the sweaty bed, the lack of blue light in my face. I plugged in the phone and pulled myself to the couch.

I might’ve fallen asleep for a minute or so, the time it took for the phone to resurface and start losing its mind, notifying me of the outside world’s demand for attention. I didn’t want to know what it had to say but I did need a distraction from feeling sick, so I picked it up, ignored the rectangles filled with texts from my friends, and opened Instagram. My brows furrowed in an effort to understand what I was seeing in the first story.

It was Portia, my algorithm’s favorite serial poster, in a nightclub, some fancy nightclub in the 8th arrondissement, a nightclub where influencers danced on tables and fireworks sprung from the top of champagne bottles. This was comprehensible, Portia liked to go out, but what wasn’t comprehensible was Diane giving Portia a kiss on the left cheek, and Isabelle Rossi kissing Portia on the right one. Isabelle, Penelope’s nemesis. Isabelle, the influencer that stabbed Penelope in the back and consequently the rest of us —the ones in the group chat, the ones under unspoken contract to stay in solidarity with Penelope— hadn’t spoken to her in over a year. Portia included. Until, apparently, last night.

I mean let’s be clear I hadn’t spoken to Isabelle Rossi because I’d never spoken to her in the first place, but Portia, Elaine, and Diane had cut her out like the “evil cancerous cell” she so clearly was.

Penelope’s words.

My thumb was pressed on the screen, pausing the image while my pulsing brain tried to process it.

God damnit, Portia.

She knew nothing about keeping the peace.

She knew nothing about for the sake of the group.

She knew about drama and how to make it and how to get a little high off of it.

And then I realized what all of the “dings” that had come from the phone were going to be about, and I groaned loudly because clearly the thought hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind that I was bedridden, debilitated, and probably suffering from a disease that had shut down the entire world three years ago. Instead they’d picked up their phones and made a conscious decision that it was a good idea to get me involved in this week’s round of Who’s Mad At Who?

I opened iMessage and started with the first in a series of voice notes sent by Portia in the early hours of the morning.

“Oh my God. Okay Al I’m sorry I know you’re sick but oh my God Pen is seriously losing it okay so we’re at Hotel Amour—”

I pulled my face away. It lasted another four and a half minutes. For four and a half minutes Portia’s four am voice explained that the four of them— Portia, Penelope, Elaine, and Diane — had met for cocktails at Hotel Amour. Everything had been fine except Penelope, as usual, wouldn’t stop complaining about her job. So Portia called her out on it, like, what were they supposed to do, spend every weekend listening to Penelope complain about being the boss? She had been bitching about it literally since she got promoted, even though she’s obviously obsessed with being in charge. Stop lying to yourself and grow up! So Portia had told Penelope that, to grow up, and Penelope got huffy and went outside to smoke with Elaine, and Portia and Diane had agreed that Penelope was being a drama queen, and when the other two came back from smoking Diane said just that, she said it in a joking way but she did say it—they’d had like three cocktails each by then— and Penelope ignores her and literally keeps complaining so Diane was just like, stop being an overdramatic little bitch. But in like a funny way, you know? And so this is when Penelope really loses it like goes off on Diane. She was so mean. She kept being like, that’s easy for you to say when you don’t even have the balls to stand up to your cheating loser boyfriend. No joke that’s what she said. And obviously Diane was shocked, first of all she’d been joking and second of all she never complains about Christophe and Penelope literally can’t talk about anything else but herself. It was seriously so bitchy. Even Elaine who you know is always so far up Pen’s ass seemed surprised. So Portia was just like fuck this and she told Diane they were leaving and they fucking left because like, what the fuck!?

That was the first of six voice notes.

The next one discussed how Portia, not wanting to owe anything to Penelope, had paid the bill for all twelve of the drinks on the way out which had cost literally like a hundred fifty euros. But whatever she wasn’t going to wait around and what— split the check with that attention whore and give her yet another chance to complain about her job!? So they left and Diane was really upset you know how she never stands up for herself or whatever and she was clearly super hurt so Portia told her to obviously not listen to Penelope and her and Christophe’s relationship had fucking nothing to do with anyone but her and Christophe and then Portia texted her friend Julien—remember Julien? That guy she met in Saint Tropez?—and he was like come to this club and she was like Diane you need a freaking fun night out and another cocktail so they went to the 8th and there was like this password to get in it was a whole thing and they’re there and they find Julien and they’re dancing and Portia takes a bump from him—

A sudden sympathetic resonance of the hangover Portia must have right now surged through my already aching body.

—and she goes in the bathroom and fucking guess who’s there. Isabelle Rossi.

I had to hand it to Portia for the use of dramatic effect despite the state and the hour of this voice note series. That last one had been sent at 4:02 in the morning, and the next not until 4:09.

So Portia just starts thinking — what the hell is the point of having a vendetta against this woman? She’s hot, she’s fun, and what, Portia can’t talk to her because Penelope thinks she stole her idea for a goddamn reel? How old are they? Seriously though. How old are they. Iz and Portia used to have fucking fun going out so Portia was just like hey girl! And Isbelle was like hey girl! And they honestly had the best night. Like it was so much fun. So Portia’s just thinking like why is she friends with someone who wants to shut cool people out and complain and permanently be the center of attention, not to mention be a total bitch to Diane which Portia just isn’t ever going to stand for. What’s the point of that. So fuck it.

The notes were getting shorter in length, Portia was running out of steam or substance.

Isabelle and Diane and Portia are going to Pride tomorrow, Portia told Elaine to come but of course she’s probably going to keep acting like Penelope’s pet. Maybe Christophe and Julien will come too. Portia knows you feel shitty but she really wants you to come and they can all just have a drama free fun day. She’s going to call Elaine tomorrow. Like she NEEDS to see how ridiculous Pen has been lately.

Do you think Pen’s having a mental breakdown or something? Anyway they missed you last night, feel better and come tomorrow!!

Hiiiiii, how are you feeling and can you come to Pride !? Obviously Elaine isn’t budging whatever if she wants to have a melodramatic day with Pen that’s on her.

That was the last voicenote. Where did these women get this energy? Even in health I didn’t have the stamina to stand up to Penelope, text fuckboys from Saint Tropez, and do cocaine until four in the morning.

I mean, my god, we were thirty years old.

I tossed the phone to the floor. Like a grown up.

The sun was fully bathing the apartment at this point, drowning me inside a humid, sweltering box that smelled like sweat and the Vicks VapoRub I’d smuggled into the country after my last visit to the U.S. The fan hummed and blew hot air at me each time it rotated. The open window offered zero reprieve, just more dense polluted hellish air, just the cacophony of tourists and Parisians and people on their way to Pride. Just the clamor of cars in traffic and crowds on the café terrace and the damn pigeons that stared at me but thank God hadn’t yet had the courage to come inside. There’d be nothing to come inside for. There were no groceries, no color coordinated fruit bowl like at Diane’s house, no fridge filled with pressed juices like at Penelope’s. No air conditioning like at Elaine’s.

Just me watching the pigeons watching me and the phone on the floor that continued to be the only option for tolerable distraction because the iPad was in the bedroom which was too far away.

Satisfied with my self-control of having taken a ten minute break from it, I picked it back up and started scrolling. What was I going to do, try to follow a French documentary on Arte? Open the copy of Ulysses that’d been sitting on my bedside table since we all pretended to be readers in April 2020? If there was ever an acceptable time for scrolling it was when you had a fever of a hundred and no food in the house and couldn’t fucking stop coughing. Not much had changed, though, since the last time I’d engaged in the activity of overloading my neural pathways with indigestible information.

The world is still on fire. A supermodel just published an autobiography. A pop star bought a ranch for thirteen million dollars. There’s more proof of aliens. One of your mom’s friends just adopted a wirehaired Dachshund. The founder of OceanGate still wants to expand the boundaries of deep sea travel. A monsoon killed a bunch of people in Bangladesh. By 2030 the population will be nearly nine billion. A new heat record was reached in Texas. Prigozhin is leading Wagner into Rostov-On-Don. Someone you met at a concert in 2013 took a business class flight to Bangkok. There are ten wallpapers that will transform your home office into a digital nomad getaway. The world is on fire.

THE GIRLSSS

Today 10:55

Portia

@Elaine just comeeeeee

We’re pregaming at mine

They actually had ice at Carrefour !

Diane

I’ll be there in 20 😁

The texts arrived at the top of my screen and I tapped Diane’s, bringing me to the group chat, which was confusing because if they were all in a fight why would that be the platform of communication. But in truth I didn’t understand most of the psychological warfare they waged on each other. I scrolled up until I reached the last text I’d read the evening before and skimmed down. What time, where to go, be there soon, metro fucked but super close, walking in now!

Today 07:57

Penelope has left the group chat Huh. Well. It seemed someone else had also opened Instagram first thing this morning. The intensity of Penelope’s reaction stirred something in my chest that allowed me to entirely disassociate from the pain in my body and desire to dig more deeply into whatever drama had occurred the night before. It was a different kind of sickness; annoyance, anger, artifice. Having Portia’s side of the story, the one that she’d deemed critical enough to recount to me at four in the morning, I tapped the iMessage chat I had with Penelope.

Penelope

Yesterday 22:47

I know you’re super sick but can you call me if you’re up?

Today 7:52

WTF.

I cannot fucking believe her.

And then, of course, as if I had nothing better to do in my life than to listen to the Penelope and Portia podcast, a five minute voice note.

Okay so basically last night Portia AND Diane had essentially ATTACKED Penelope at Hotel Amour. They were being so fucking selfish. Like okay, Penelope complained about her job sometimes, but guess what, at least she was fucking DOING SOMETHING with her life. She was running a business. A BUSINESS. They had no fucking clue what it was like to be an entrepreneur, to be the boss of a brand, to work more than two freaking hours a day. Penelope was working ten, sometimes twelve hours a day. Honestly sometimes twenty. Portia??? The pastry chef who moved to Paris THREE YEARS AGO and has had exactly, hmmmm, let’s think, ZERO jobs in a bakery since then? Or Diane, fucking UNEMPLOYED HOUSEWIFE Diane who did nothing but bitch and moan about her boyfriend? Like guess what Diane maybe if you actually did something with your life you wouldn’t be so focused on the cheating alcoholic you barely even see. So they’re at Penelope’s throat because she was just trying to vent about some work stuff, next thing she knows she’s under attack, and then the two of them just bail. Like what the fuck. So Penelope and Elaine are sitting there, shocked, thank God for Elaine the literal only loyal friend in this group, and they decide to go home since they’re not alcoholics and wanted to actually have fun at Pride today. And then what does Penelope wake up to? Of course. That fucking traitor left her so called best friends sitting at a bar to go meet up with that BITCH Isabelle Rossi. Like um did Penelope need to remind everyone what happened two years ago? Did Portia seriously not remember what that plagiarizing, parsimonious, Judas did?? Penelope was done. So done. Portia is a bitch and if she’s going to show her true colors great. At least we all know now. And if she fucking invades Penelope’s space at Pride tomorrow… Let her try. Just let her try. Were you feeling better, are you coming to Pride? Elaine and Penelope were going to get ready at Lillian’s house. Lillian was actually a way better friend than Portia, like why had they ever thought letting Portia into this group was a good idea???

Parsimonius? Really? We’re going to play Look Who Went to Princeton at eight in the morning on a Saturday? I also thought it was a stretch to compare Isabelle Rossi making a reel about her new brand using a similar font and location as Penelope’s latest reel about her new brand to one of the original twelve apostles identifying Jesus to religious authorities and therefore condemning him to crucifixion on the cross, but with Penelope you really had to pick your battles.

A text came through from Elaine, but it was in a new group chat called My Girls❤️, and rather than getting involved in whatever that was going to be I clicked the iMessage chat I had with Elaine.

Elaine

Today 8:02

Hey girl

How are you feeling?

Lmk if you need anything ❤️

So I figure you've heard about this drama from last night...

Pen called me this morning. She's super upset.

And I mean I get it.

It's humiliating, and she's not going to say it but obv she feels humiliated. I'm rly disappointed in

Portia.

Today 10:10

Pen and I are going to Lillian’s and I really think you should come if you’re feeling up to it, Pride is Pen’s thing, she’s been talking about it for weeks, it means a lot to her, I think

Portia’s being rly selfish about it so hopefully see you at Lil’s ❤️

What was most confusing to me was how a group of such narcissistic women were so willing to get themselves contaminated by my contagious presence. They’re inability to look past their emotions to the longer term reality of getting Covid and therefore not being able to participate in whatever circus they had planned next weekend was perplexing.

Again that heat rising in my chest that had nothing to do with the coughing, that had to do with injustice and being pissed off and watching everyone be fucking selfish.

I mean what the hell showed up on their phones when they fucking scrolled?

Did they not see that the world was on fire? Did they not see the starving children in the slums of Caracas? Did they not see there was war in Ukraine and ethnic cleansing in China and the rise of the right wing in Eastern Europe? No. All they saw was who is on the cover of this month’s Vogue and how some TikToker lost ten pounds with these recipes and the fact that their ex from seven years ago is now posting photos with some new chick. Who’s so ugly by the way.

I tried to calm myself with a few deep breaths but no air would circulate through my clogged nostrils and it just instigated a coughing fit that burned my lungs.

I took another 1000mg Doliprane, rubbed more Vicks on my chest, and found a Xanax in the bottom of my toiletry bag.

Curled under three blankets in my ninety-seven degree living room I finally passed out, no Netflix or anything, just the sweet release of Western medication. A few hours of emptiness and extrication from the theater of waking life.

Saturday June 24, 14:57

When I woke there was a burning pain where my throat meets my chest. In a stupor I shot up on the couch, choking and sputtering, my head spasming. Once vertical, snot dripped from my nose onto my lips and down the back of my throat. My joints throbbed. I swallowed another Doliprane and knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. I changed into yet another sort-of-clean set of pajamas and managed to make a Chamomile.

Ding ding.

Goddamn.

I hadn’t turned it off before my Xanax-induced coma.

I sipped the tea and ignored the texts, preferring to get a grasp of the situation through the world’s most telling news platform: Instagram.

Portia’s stories first, naturally. Portia and Diane throwing back tequila shots at Portia’s (posted at 11 in the morning? Seriously?). Portia and Diane and Isabelle Rossi and another American Paris influencer whose real name I didn’t know blowing kisses towards the camera at the setup for the parade. Portia and Diane and Isabelle dancing and drinking Coronas. Portia and Diane and Isabelle and Margaret and Jennifer dancing with a group of men, hashtag #PRIDE. Rainbows and glitter and drinks being spilled.

Then Penelope’s stories. Penelope and Elaine and Lillian drinking Moët in Lillian’s apartment, which apparently also had air conditioning. #AmericansinParis. Penelope and Elaine and Lillian and Maude and Roxanne on a float before the parade begins. Penelope tagging the sunglasses she was supposed to be selling. Penelope and Elaine hugging, their Botox faces and pushed up boobs pressing against each other, #realfriends.

A text came through to the My Girls ❤️ chat and I clicked the icon to see who was even in it. Penelope, me, Elaine, Lillian, Maude, and Roxanne. Half of the THE GIRLSSS chat and half of Penelope’s work friends. I scrolled to the top.

My Girls ❤️

Yesterday 8:20

Pen

Ladies !

Can’t wait to see you today ❤️❤️❤️

Elaine

Yayyyyyyy

Lillian

My place at 11 I have snacks and more importantly drinks

We’ll get ready at mine

Maude

What can we bring ?

Lillian

Just yourselves and maybe more drinks lol

Pen

Perf can’t wait

V much looking forward to being the best looking ones there

And not having to be around bullshit drama

Let’s stick together.

Maude

👏👏👏

Pen

Feel better @Alice !

Better be in bed and not pregaming w the traitor 😜

That really pissed me off.

What the sickness was doing was draining me of any ounce of empathy for the bullshit they put everyone through whenever they were bored, and was making me so forcefully care for getting the bare minimum of basic needs met—right now Doliprane and Vicks and water and Xanax—that I couldn’t care if the two of them—Penelope and Portia—killed each other in an Instagram Live video on a Pride float for all of Paris to see. I just couldn’t care. But at the same time I was desperate for a distraction, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit theirs was more effective than any of the ones I could find on Netflix or the New York Times or nestled in my bookshelf.

So I kept scrolling the chat, not proud of getting sucked into it, but satisfied with being sick as an excuse. Easier to watch women in their thirties go at each other in a she-did-this-she-did-that combat involving Instagram at a parade celebrating sexual diversity than to spend another ten minutes self-diagnosing on WebMD.

They texted about being late, what’s the door code, rosé or champagne…. And then there was a video, sent by Roxane, just twenty minutes before.

Broad daylight, somewhere on the Boulevard Diderot. Like boxers in a ring Penelope stood before Portia, encircled by Elaine and Diane and Maude and Lillian and Isabelle Rossi and Margaret and Jennifer and presumably Roxanne who must have been filming. Surrounded by gay people and lesbian people and transgender people and straight people and bi people celebrating and taking shots and singing along with songs about sex and partying and loving. The sun beat down on them just as it did now through the window of my apartment, I could see the boob sweat forming on Penelope’s tank top, the way Portia’s mini dress was bunching around her crotch. They were decked out in glitter and color and held plastic champagne flutes. Their eye makeup was smeared and they seemed unaware that passersby were mocking them, filming them, pausing for a moment to watch and laugh and perhaps be unsure if it was part of the pageantry.

It was certainly a show.

“How fucking dare you Portia, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!” I could see even in the iPhone quality film the rage in Penelope’s eyes, the revulsion, the threat. “Isabelle goddamn Rossi is a bitch and she plagiarized my fucking brand and you’re supposed to be my best friend! You’re supposed to be my best friend Portia!”

Isabelle goddamn Rossi, who was behind them in the frame, stared wide-eyed, unaware that her cigarette had gone out, unaware that her left nipple had slipped from behind her tank top.

“Pen I am your fucking best friend but it’s really hard to be when you make every single thing about you! Like there is no space for anyone else you’re just pushing us away -”

“Us?! Who’s ‘us?’ You mean you and Diane, who you stole? Who you corrupted into believing the bullshit lies you spread about me? Who will come back to my side the second she realizes what a backstabber you are?”

“You sound insane. Since when have there been sides? I’m sorry you have literally nothing better to do than to threaten your friends—”

“Uh excuse me? It’s ME who has nothing better to do? Um, what about the fact that you haven’t had a job in three years? What about the fact you’re a TRAITOR with the worst possible taste in people? Let alone taste in men. Like the time you slept with Josh, the weekend him and Elaine got in that fight? And THAT’S why you broke up with Leo, hmm? That’s it, no? Huh? I bet you haven’t told anyone about that one, am I right?”

Even my jaw dropped.

Elaine wasn’t in the frame. It was clear from Diane’s face that she hadn’t known.

They stared at each other, Portia and Penelope. They stared and I knew neither would back down and I knew there’d be some sort of bloodshed. The metaphorical kind. The kind where women’s hearts are broken by each other because their egos have suffered a great deal, because hurt people hurt people, because their insecurity breeds a need to outshine the other.

“Do us all a favor, Portia. Take the job in Berlin. You’ve burned enough bridges in this city. Nobody wants you here anymore. Nobody.”

Portia did look for a second like she might slap Penelope. Or break down in a puddle of tears in the middle of Pride, paraders prancing over her, pouring out the soul she usually protected so carefully.

Like she had done at my apartment six weeks before, crying on my couch as the sun came in and there’d been no ice for sale at the Carrefour so I’d had to make us room temperature tequila sodas.

Crying to me about the fact she’d slept with Elaine’s boyfriend and had broken up with Leo and had been offered a job as the pastry chef at a hotel in Berlin and it was a great fucking job but she didn’t know what she’d do without her friends, but she also knew if Elaine ever found out she’d never be her friend again and neither would Penelope and maybe not even Diane and I’d been the only one she could tell because she fucking had to tell someone and she needed someone to tell her what to do.

What do I do, Alice? she’d asked me and smeared mascara on my white couch and looked at me like a wounded child.

But now at Pride she didn’t slap Penelope and she didn’t melt into a puddle she just turned around and dashed into the crowd and the video ended and there were texts under it but I couldn’t read them and I just held my phone in front of my face and some snot dripped onto it and then a phone call came in from Portia.

“Hello?”

“Hey Alice.”

“Hi.”

She was crying. “Are you feeling better?”

“Not really.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“I need to talk to Penelope.”

“Okay.”

“She won’t pick up my calls.”

“She’s not going to listen to me, Portia.”

“Can you just ask her to meet me at your apartment?

“Portia I have Covid.”

“We won’t get in your way, I just need to talk to her, your place is closest, it’s neutral, please Alice, I swear it won’t take long.”

“Okay fine. I’ll text Pen, I’ll let you in but I’m staying in my room.”

So much for not getting involved.

So much for staying in on a Friday night to avoid being Patient Zero amongst the influencing American expat community of Paris.

Saturday June 24, 22:38

I agreed to procure the peace treaty as long as I wasn’t expected to mediate and could stay safely out of the line of fire in my bedroom that still smelled like sweat and sickness and Vicks.

My self-restraint stopped there, though, and I sat on the floor with my back to the door, sipping the soup Portia had brought me and listening as the buzzer went off and Portia undid the lock for Penelope.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

There was no way they were sober enough for this.

“Thank you for coming.” That was Portia.

“You fucking hurt me Portia. And Elaine. And I really don’t get what—”

“I’m going to Berlin.”

“Look Porsh you know I don’t want you to go to Berlin but—”

“I’m taking the job. For what it’s worth I’m sorry about this weekend. I’m sorry about Josh. Just don’t blame Diane for Isabelle, it was my idea and she really had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t blame Diane but Portia you —“

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been pissed for weeks Pen, I really felt like when I needed you you weren’t there. Maybe it’s my fault for not asking you clearly enough to be there. But regardless of whatever, I fucked up with Elaine, I fucked up with you, I’ve been fucking lost for a long time, and I’m going to Berlin.”

They were both quiet. I was starting to feel a bit better, the soup was the first thing I’d eaten since yesterday, and I wondered for a moment if I should go out there and hug them and say listen you idiots you love each other and the world is on fire and there’s no fucking reason to fight about stupid Isabelle Rossi.

But I had Covid so I sat behind the door and eavesdropped and let them use my living room to work or not work their shit out.

“I don’t want you to go to Berlin.”

“I don’t want to fight any more, I don’t want you girls to fight anymore. I’m going to go. It’s temporary.”

Silence again.

I heard the wounded, insecure children pour themselves a drink from the $130 bottle of Mezcal I’d brought back for myself last time I was in New York.

“To Berlin,” Portia said.

“To Berlin.” Their glasses clinked. My body relaxed. The snot from my Covid mixed with the snot from my tears and I was angry at them for not making up better and I was angry at Portia for leaving and I was angry at Penelope for letting her leave. I was lonely and exhausted and sick and desperate and insecure and wounded and now crying on the other side of the bedroom door because I loved them both and the more we isolated from each other the harder everything got.

Tuesday June 27, 16:10

I was better, not one hundred percent but able to “work” from my bed, which meant vacillating between sending an email and scrolling for ten minutes.

Biden says the U.S. hadn’t been involved in the revolt. A dad and his step-kid died in the Texas heatwave. Something about the case with Trump that you never managed to understand but pretend you know enough to talk about. They’re still uncovering ways Saudi Arabia was shitty during the World Cup in December. Your high school crush just got promoted at Goldman Sachs. Why are you always attracted to assholes? The world is on fire. Prigozhin was exiled to Belarus. A famous actor got Me Too-ed. Why are you always attracted to assholes? There are eight ways to make lasagne that taste better than your nonna’s. Apple is designing a new product to divert us even further from reality. There’s a Ted Talk about integrity. They approved a new treatment for erectile dysfunction. It’s not too late for the Republican Party. The world is on fire.