Elmer’s glue sticks changed their formula. They used to smell better, more toxic. More likely to get you high. I bet a bunch of fifth graders used to sniff and lick the shit out of them, and their mommies complained, so the company had to dial it down. They were barely usable now, but I still liked them; they were good for mood boards. Some people like to use pins for mood boards, but where was the dedication in that? The commitment? If you want to have a fucking mood, own it. Put some elbow grease into it.

I cut carefully along the photo, making sure to get her hair in. Her perfect fucking hair. I wanted hair like that. Long, cascading, blonde. My hair wasn’t like that—it was just below my shoulders and dark brown. Too thick, too wavy. She had extensions in this shot. I know because I’ve sneaked into the same parties as her just to catch a glimpse. Her eye makeup sparkled; her lips were ultraglossy. She wore Gucci boots and supertight jeggings and carried a comically large bag by Ce?line. She wore her hair at different lengths during the week, courtesy of extensions. Later, I copied that look to a T. It was amazing what those bags could carry.

My mood board was filled with shots of Sarah out partying, going to fashion shows, beaming at the camera. She was an associate editor at La Vie, and she was perfect. Her family was rich, she was gorgeous, and her closet would make you cry. She was the opposite of me. I didn’t have photo spreads in magazines. I didn’t have summer houses and beach cottages. I had barred windows as a kid and a paper cup full of pills. Now I had a small apartment, but it wasn’t as nice as Sarah’s. (There were photos online.)