ONCE A DAY, at a random time, my laptop webcam photographs me. A masochistic ritual that still startles: to open a new Google tab and see my own face. I dash off a response to the prompt—What are you thinking about?—and this capture is added to my personal archive. So there I am: in bed in my softest sleep shirt, eyes half-closed (captioned “positive outcome”); in bed, nostrils flared (“sarah paulson”); backlit by a window framing bare trees (“morsel”); at my desk, hand over my mouth (“chevy to the levee”); on a velvet couch, my left eyebrow extra high (“ssense sale?”).
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