"IT GIRL APATHY" by @its_too_clout (excerpt from "I'm in love with Dasha Nekrasova) Laslo was supposed to be at the apartment that night with the shit, the stash, the pills, the "bolivian marching powder" or whatever, but he was in Atlantic City, hemorrhaging cash at a blackjack table. Nathan had no idea. So when she came at the door, pounding like she had a warrant and hurling every curse she knew, he had no prep time. He was in his homebody uniform—Knicks shorts, a baggy blue tee—when she started up. “I hear you shuffling around, retard. Let me in this shithole.” Nathan cracked the door. She shoved past him, oversized designer bag slung over one arm, $3,000 Louis Vuitton sunglasses still on, even though it was past midnight. She pulled a champagne bottle from her bag, flopped onto his couch, and started scrolling through her phone. “This place makes my skin crawl,” she mutters. “I feel like I’ll get bedbugs just sitting here." “Yeah, I guess. Maybe.” “This place is disgusting, Nathan. I can help you find somewhere more… dignified.” “Your place isn’t any better than mine. Be real, fam.” “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve upgraded my living situation to far more suitable accommodations, my lowly, well-tempered fellow.” She cackled, took a swig from the bottle. “Why are you talking like some British person?” “British person?! Like Mary Poppins?” She laughed harder, tipped sideways off the couch, and spilled champagne all over the floor. “Okay. Time to go.” Nathan reached down to help her up. “I got it! I got it! Get your greasy goombah hands off me, you limp-dick loser! Where’s Laslo? Where THE FUCK is Laslo?” “I don’t know, bitch. Get outta here with your Basketball Diaries ass.” “I’m sorry. I’ll clean. I’m sorry, Nathan.” She grabbed the throw blanket from his sofa and started wiping up the spill. But before she could do much, her phone buzzed. She dropped the blanket, fully absorbed in whatever was on the screen. Nathan groaned, kicked the damp blanket aside, and grabbed a mop. “What the hell is wrong with you? I sleep on that. Who the fuck uses a blanket to clean spills? You use a mop. A fucking mop, fam!” She laughed again, thumbs tapping away, probably texting someone about how hilarious this all was. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that was your blanket. I’ll order you a new one right now. A fur blanket, soft, light, and warm. A friend of mine has it—you’ll love it. I have Amazon Prime, so next-day delivery.” Then she got up, wobbled towards him, cupped his face like she was about to bestow some grand, cinematic blessing. And before he could stop himself, before logic could make its way into the equation, she kissed him. He dropped the mop he was holding. It clattered against the champagne bottle, knocking it over again. This was her thing. The kiss. The reset button. She did it whenever she thought she’d gone too far. They’d hang out in his wreck of an apartment, watching obscure European films she’d strong-armed him into subscribing to on The Criterion Channel—pretending to care for ten minutes before drifting off, hypnotized by her own reflection on Instagram. But he loved her. She made him feel alive. Making out with an It Girl was everything he imagined it’d be. It was amazing. “I love you,” he said. “That’s retarded.” The next day, she ghosted him. He never saw her again. But he did get that blanket she ordered, though. So that was tight.