"Chelsea, please don't talk to me." "Bitch." "Chels, please." She's still talking. About languages, about beauty, about juice. I'm just trying to tune her out with my one-dimensional playlist. Sad song, sad song, this song reminds me of this person, this one that other person. et cetera. And now her lips are moving along with the Mayday in my ears. I feel cheap. A 60-second airspace whore. Computer, $500. Headphones, $4.99. Being able to tune out your sister when all you really want is to be alone with your thoughts: Priceless. "Chels, are you talking to me?" "Yeah. Imagine you are a mother, and you have a daughter, and you are going through her purse to get back money she borrowed that she never paid you back, and you find condoms. Do you think that it's better that you found condoms than didn't? And she's only like fifteen." "...Chelsea, please. Just stop talking to me." My mother is at work all day today. Quiet, relaxing?