Really, Azalea, talk about jumping to conclusions. I definitely wasn’t dead. I roll my eyes at the comments below the picture:
OMG Zizi! I hope u r OK! All my !!!!!
Stay strong gurl!!!!
Plus about twenty more.
Excuse me. I didn’t even get flowers. Not a single condolence or visitor to the hospital. This post was like my obituary starring Azalea.
The morning after my supposed death, she posted a picture of her butt in tight jeans.
Azalea is officially out of the wedding.
I need to get out of here, but on the way out of the museum I walk past MySelfie, the new exhibit. Fuck them. Fuck their pain. I’m going to give them a goddamn self-portrait. There’s a selfie booth with a very PhD-esque description of the selfie as today’s version of the self-portrait, and a few sentences about how in the past only the rich could experiment with self-portraiture, versus these days when every asshole can take a gazillion self-portraits a day. Was this the democratization of self-obsession? On another note, I’m totally saving the line about democracy for the next time Max looks smug when I take a pic in front of him.
I’m not sure if the commentary about the inherent power of choosing how to present yourself to the world jibes with reality. The wall of self-portraits is filled with shots of girls with heart crowns and Barbie-fied faces. Does a Snapchat filter that gives you kitty whiskers, makes your ears sparkly, and erases your zits carry power? Is there power in choosing to be fake? In choosing to conform? Online anyone can look like an ideal woman, but only online.
The exhibit’s selfie booth is a teenage dream. It encourages runaway selfishness. There are backgrounds, props, hats, Venetian masks, and party beads to pick from. A college intern is posted next to the booth to assist. None of the computerized backgrounds (hot-air balloon and cotton candy scenes) work for me. I’m not in the mood for any cutesy bullshit, so I stand in front of a blank wall without any props, not even a fake smile, and snap a pic. It looks like a mug shot.
“Whoa, I like what you’re doing here,” the intern says. “You’re moody AF.”
Like my mood is part of a costume. “No, bitch. I just hate the world for real at the moment. Do you have a black Sharpie I can borrow?”
He nods. “I feel ya. The world is a cesspool.”
I can see Audi keys in his back pocket. I think his world is a candy store, but whatever.
He wanders off to find me a Sharpie. After he prints my moody AF photo I write, If you have any information about this woman, please message @Mia4Realz on Instagram.
“That’s deep. I mean, really profound.”
I give a half smile and hang up the picture, right in the center of all the other selfies. I’m the only mug shot in a sea of adorable girls being adorable. “I’m serious. I just want information. I need someone to tell me who I am.” I jam in an extra pushpin so it doesn’t fall off. “As soon as possible.”
“Don’t we all,” he says, totally missing my point. As I walk out, wearing my mood (if that’s what he wants to call it) harder than Lady Gaga wore that sliced meat dress, he says, “I hope you enjoyed the exhibit.”
Maybe my ego is out of proportion, but I think I am the exhibit.
Finally, Max texts back. Lunch sounds great. Ready when u r.
I stare at the text a little longer than necessary, like it’s a message in a bottle from that Nicholas Sparks movie. You know the one. It’s just a text about lunch, but to me it’s a lifeline. I need to show him Azalea’s Instagram, look up GoldRush, and show him my yacht. Max better buckle up ’cause I’ve just drafted him as the Watson to my Sherlock.
Google says it’ll take thirty-nine minutes to get to the lab. I text back, Pick you up in 25.
15 Definitely not an art person. I seem to have deep-seated prejudices against art people.
16 I could have thought of that. Maybe I did. I should check to see if I work here.
17 I love you, Kristen Bell! #marshmallows #VeronicaMars
CHAPTER
SIX
With traffic it takes more like an hour to get to Max’s lab, but at least I look fast. I park the Ferrari in a handicapped spot out front on the theory that if I follow my instincts, I’ll find my true self faster. All of my random impulses are probably who I am at my core. We all get through the day on muscle memory for the most part. If I don’t think and just do, I might arrive at my true self.
So there we have it: a bright red Ferrari in a handicapped spot when there are, like, five other spaces available. Am I in a hurry all the time? I reapply my lipstick and walk into the building, my heels clacking on the sidewalk. Devil may care in Pirate red. And I was a cape wearer. If I wasn’t me, I’d want to be my friend.
The inside of the building is covered with posters from every scientific conference, and the people walking around look like they’re filled with purpose and a sense of belonging. Max fits in perfectly. Could I ever fit in at a place like this?18
Speaking of Max, I catch sight of him coming toward me and I exhale. The yacht, the art museum, the freeway…I didn’t realize how tightly clenched I’ve been until now.
I realize his clothes are pretty wrinkly, as if he’s been looking through a microscope in one position for too long. He could also use a haircut and a trip to the mall, something I’m pretty sure I could help with.
“I have so much to tell you,” I say.
Then I see his face. Something truly awful has happened in the last few hours. He looks like someone just told him that Congress defunded the space program for a second time.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Ugh. I’ll tell you in a second. I have to get some stuff out of my lab. I’m clearing out of here for a couple of days.”
It must be bad.
I follow him up to his lab, which is a cross between a highend hospital and an office building. The lab echoes the look of the lobby—cool, clean, and painted in shades of gray. The only thing that saves it from being totally boring is the printouts of memes, comics, joke pictures, and takeout menus pinned to the walls. That alone makes me want to hang out with these twentysomething geniuses, telling jokes and eating Chinese delivery. How is there not a sitcom set in a lab? Or a romantic workplace drama starring Max? Totally bingeable TV, in my opinion.
A couple of lab girls who are cute enough to make me question if they’re neuroscientists say, “Ohmygod Max! We heard the bad news. Fay is such a bitch.” Apparently science girls also speak Valley because their accents are strong.
“I can’t believe Eric is firing you,” one of them says.