Another wild Friday night up in here. I gave up on life by 10:30 a.m. and it's been pretty much nonstop intentional adulthood avoidance ever since.

If you haven't read Samantha Irby, stop reading me, and go find her shit. It's funnier, and she's smarter than, like, most of the people. She's become my favorite Friday night self care ritual, because a) she's funny b) a bitch can only watch reruns of Daniel Tiger so many times in one week before she needs some stories about Crohn's disease shits and c) she writes about food just enough to remind me to make snacks while I read.

If you want to join me in my new favorite "Corona Fucked Everything Up So This Is How I Party Now" Friday night ritual, here's what you need to do. (P.S. I said that like I used to go clubbing or some shit but really the most I aspired to in pre-pandemic life was, like, an hour alone at Half Price Books and some frozen custard. But you get what I'm saying.)

1. Go find one of Samantha Irby's books. I'm reading Meaty right now, but really any of them will do.

2. Wash your face with some bougie shit that you don't use enough because you're saving it for a special occasion, but it's still a global pandemic, so none of us is goin' nowhere. Dab on EVERY ONE OF YOUR NIGHTTIME SERUMS. Not just the retinol, baby, do 'em all. Now, moisturize, too. Atta girl.

Okay, you still with me?

3. Now, go downstairs, and toast a Dave's everything bagel. Eat some Cherry Garcia while you wait for it to pop out and startle your ass to death because you forgot you had something in the toaster. (Incidentally, if you happen to toot when you're caught by surprise, I present the following new word to describe said flatulence: fartled. You know what I'm saying? A startled fart. Fartled.) Put some Philadelphia cream cheese on your bagel. Don't use the generic shit. You a bad bitch, and you deserve Philly. Eat one more spoonful of Cherry Garcia, then put the rest of it back in the freezer because you're fucking considerate like that. You don't just leave it out and walk away like a monster or some easily distracted 13-year-old.

4. Turn your fan on. I don't care if it's 47 degrees in your house, we sleep with fans on in here. Now settle down in bed under both a weighted blanket and an electric blanket, and read some Samantha Irby while you enjoy your warm, toasty bagel with quality cream cheese. But eat sitting up, because you're gonna laugh, and then you're gonna choke on your bagel, and nobody wants to find your dead body with a chunk of bagel lodged in your windpipe. You'll shit yourself, probably, if you choke to death on a bagel, and also: cats eat the fingertips of the corpse first. That's just not a good look for anyone.

Happy Friday, friends.