I wanted to punch her. I wanted to rip her blown-out-to-perfection blonde hair until she was bloody and bald. I wanted her to say I was stunning and gorgeous, her ideal vision of a best friend.

I wanted to devise a torture device that made Celia ride until she died. Or better yet, start my own class: Psycho Cycle. It’d be the ideal workout for today’s woman: half the class has to get away from crazed killers (spoiler alert: they die), and the rest of us come out looking like Kaia Gerber. Million-dollar idea.

Fashion people never let you forget that you don’t belong.

My need for attention was going to ruin me. I had to play it cool. I drew a heart on his board. See? Nothing but love and positive vibes.

Jokes were essential. I liked having them with BFFs. Meredith and I had one. We would always point out a boy and say, “That’s who you’re gonna marry.” And then laugh until we cried. She always picked the ugliest ones for me. She was such a bitch.

I was desperate for a Sarah win. But the more I craved it, the more annoyed I got. At Sarah, not myself. She would never be satisfied. I glanced at my Instagrammed selfie from the salon. My hair looked good, dammit. What would it take for Sarah Taft to tell me I was perfect?

I wondered what would shut her up the fastest: smashing her head through the glass window or agreeing with her. I decided to go with the latter. Why ruin her pretty face?

I wanted her to say to me that I was perfect, I was everything she wanted in a friend. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing.

She was found in her apartment yesterday. Dead.” About time.