I believe it’s fair to say that into every life, a time may come when one realizes that the person she’s been corresponding with for the past week in a dismissive, typo-riddled manner is actually the son of a billionaire media mogul.
And then one’s grandmother calls and asks what one’s full name is because she’s been making her will this morning, and one responds in a jovial, lighthearted manner, “I hope I get some good stuff!”
And then one makes a pot of coffee and looks at Pinterest for a while. And then the J. Crew website, wherein she finds that she badly wants, but could never afford, this sweater. But whatever–all the rich people already snatched up all the ones in her size anyway.
And then one begins writing about these little marsupials whose bodies disintegrate during mating season: they’re trying to get as many dates as possible while their fur is falling out and they’re experiencing not insubstantial internal hemorrhaging.
We live in this world, you guys. We live in it and call it The Usual.