Shave my legs, wax my armpits, and clear-cut my bikini area.
Fix the Internet without saying anything triggering.
Study my Instagram feed, and assure me that I have better eyebrows than Lila, Darlene, and even Natasha, who is otherwise impressively tidy, paleo, and aware of memes.
Choose what TV show to stream because I’ve already seen seasons 1-6 of Bar Rescue.
Unsubscribe from all the emails in my Promotions tab (except the emails from the sex toy company that automatically enter me into all their win-a-free-vibrating-anal-bead contests).
Check in on my supportive neighbor who has a weak kidney to make sure she knows not to comment on my Instagram posts with fifty dumb emojis that make me look like I associate with people who don’t know how to properly engage with social media.
Change the duvet cover on my comforter, tuck me in, and hold my erotica book for me while I “read” in bed after lunch.
Tell me my vagina only itches because of the soap I’ve been using.
Throw out the irritating soap and wipe the bathroom so thoroughly that it is forensically clean of any pubic hair.
Fix the weird sound the car has been making, fill the tires with air, confirm whether I’m supposed to hold my hands at ten and two or nine and three, shampoo the driver seat so it doesn’t smell like farts, and fill all the pipes with oil.
Listen to my voicemails and delete anything that isn’t from Natasha.
Read my work emails that are too long and boring and write a strongly worded cease-and-desist-style note to Dave from Central imploring him to stop replying-all with whimsical “ironic hat” selfies.
Finish my book club book and tell me what the important parts say so Natasha will hear from her cousin’s wife who’s in my losers-only book club that I’m smart, and then she’ll finally invite me to be in what I imagine is her populars-only book club that only reads sexy celebrity biographies.
Research dog breeds to find one that doesn’t shed, bark, fart, or bite the neighbor’s kid again.
Feed the fish, water the plants, and tell me the sore on my lip is just from stress and definitely isn’t herpes.
Wear an ABC producer disguise, and drive my now-fixed car to Natasha’s home. When she comes to the door, explain to her that she’s been randomly selected as a contestant on a Wife Swap reboot, gag her gently with a chloroform-soaked rag, and bring her back to my apartment so she can witness my tidy home and bikini area first-hand and teach me everything she knows about memes.
Create a click farm to dislike all of Natasha’s posts.
