You Are Chloe. Possibly. You think.

Your head is pounding like it’s trying to escape your skull. You open one eye and the ceiling blinks back in stuccoed indifference. It’s light out — too light. Afternoon light. The kind of light that says “we’ve given up on you.”

Your room looks like a crime scene, if the criminal was a chaotic-neutral gremlin with a taste for hummus, hard seltzer, and emotional avoidance. Plates with fossilized pasta. Underwear flung like protest banners. Six different mugs of water at varying levels of staleness. You do not remember pouring any of them.

Your phone is somewhere under the bed or the couch or your ex’s emotional baggage. Vibrations throb faintly from the floorboards. You are not emotionally ready for notifications.

A vague memory drips in like a leaky faucet. Last night involved… glitter? A confrontation? A very earnest conversation about “the algorithm”? Someone cried. Might’ve been you. Might’ve been the bartender.

You sit up, which is brave, honestly. Your brain tries to slosh out of your ears. You stare at the mess around you and think:

“Okay. Today, I get it together.”

But what does “together” mean, exactly? Does it mean becoming a girlboss with a productivity journal and a neutral-toned capsule wardrobe?

Or does it mean radical self-acceptance and reading bell hooks in your underwear while eating cereal out of a saucepan?

You are modern womanhood, made flesh — and this flesh is deeply dehydrated.