Dear Wigleaf,

Just weeks after you first vaped, you were inhaling paychecks, your savings, whatever you got for that signed bowling ball, and then Vanessa moved out, but—out of some spectacular misunderstanding of everything about you—she left you Putrid Beverly (really named Clarice—"Hello, Clarice," you'd hiss like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, prompting Vanessa to shout, "She's a Maltese with show dog heritage!"), and gradually you began adoring P.B. and so you felt horrible while Googling how much a three—no, two—one?—an eleven-month-old Maltese might go for, and you shakily poured more Strawberry Fields elixir into your vape pen and composed an ad, failing to recall that the email you were using was shared with Vanessa from wedding planning stuff, and when you brought P-Bev to room 211 at the Marriot (the buyers' request), you were confronted not by self-described "empty-nesters," but instead by family and friends, including me, plus Vanessa and a counselor who asked everyone to describe vaping's toll on you—"You look... phenomenal at billiards but incompetent at literally everything else" and "I think you're supposed to be intimidating, but you smell like a teen girl's bodywash" and "I had to explain to your nephew what an MRA is!"—and you cried, "Please—help!" so off you went to a vaping rehab with the slogan, No more MIST opportunities™, and thankfully now you're doing great, so I get to finally ask what we're all dying to know: why strawberry?

Emma




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Read ESS's story.

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