Gossip blogger haunted by Lena Dunham

Chapter 1

Her entire life, Emma had been dieting. Pure protein at breakfast, just veggies at lunch, rarely any dinner - maybe a fruity snack at 5 p.m., depending on her stance on carbs at the moment.

That was on good days. Obviously, once, twice, three or four times a week, it all went to shit and she only ate prosciutto pizza and Junior Mints.

But this morning, Jan. 15, 2014, she was determined to do it right. The only carbs she'd have all day, she reasoned, would be those found in the soy milk of her morning latte.

Lying in bed, she reached for her phone, which had been sitting on the pillow next to her all night. The alarm was blaring for the fifth time that morning. She must have hit snooze for an hour. Guess there would be no time to wash her hair.

Emma always had to stare at her phone for 15 minutes before getting up. She had no windows in her bedroom, after all, so she thought of the iPhone's bluish glare as an LCD sunrise, jolting her awake.

A text from her mom: "So did you watch the globes finally?"

Right, the Golden Globes. They were a few nights ago, but Emma had skipped them in favor of blacking out with a guy she met on Tinder.

Because she worked at a celebrity gossip website, this decision had been especially irresponsible.

"Nah," she typed back.

Her new year's resolution had been to actually make it to an awards show. Like as a guest, an honoree. It was January, so she had 11 months or so.

In the meantime, watching awards shows had become too painful - since childhood, she'd thought she'd be famous by now.

She left the conversation in favor of scrolling through Instagram in search of something to write about later. There was a Parisian skyline, a cappuccino with a flower drawn in the foam, a style blogger posing in couture on a Venice gondola.

A celebrity trainer had gone on a #fitspo abs rampage, posting pic after pic of ripped torsos. Finally inspired, Emma reached over to turn on the lamp. She flopped from the bed to the floor of her bedroom. She attempted a plank. After holding it for 12 seconds, she realized that she didn't want to break a sweat in the tank top she'd slept in. She might have to wear it all day. So she stopped and flopped flat on the floor.

Using yogic breathing techniques, Emma funneled her remaining strength into her left arm so that she could reach up to her bed and grab the phone. After unlocking it, she placed it on the floor in front of her face. She commenced scanning Instagram with the bottom of her chin, which happened to be breaking out.

Then, she saw it. No no no. Nononononono. No.

It had to be Photoshopped, some sort of mock-up. There was no way - no way - that the editor to end all editors, Anna Wintour, would have put Emma's doughy nemesis - Lena freaking Dunham - on the front cover of Vogue.

And in Emma's signature look, a '60s-inspired cat-eye? No. It was just... No.

Emma felt a presence in the room with her. That was weird - her roommates were both staying with their boyfriends, last time she'd checked. She felt someone staring at her. She was starting to feel crazy. She propped herself up with one arm and looked behind her, at the corner of the room, right behind her overflowing laundry basket.

Lena Dunham was standing there in a wrinkled jumpsuit.

"Hey Em," she said. Emma stood up and backed into the opposite corner. She closed her eyes.

She felt self-conscious; her morning breath reeked, her makeup wasn't done, she didn't want to be tormented in this vulnerable state.

"What are you doing here?" Emma whispered, just in case her roommates were home. "I just woke up five minutes ago and you're already ruining my day."

"I know, right?" her enemy said, smiling hugely, looking pretty much the same as she did on the Vogue cover, even without Photoshop. What an asshole. "I forget, what was it you said to your freshman year writing class?"

"I don't remember," Emma said, attempting to scoff. "Why would I ever remember that?"

"I think you told them you'd be the first triple-threat to be on the cover of Vogue, didn't you? The first female writer-actor-director ever to make it?"

"So?" Emma said, remembering that dopey speech she'd made on the first day of class, like a total douche, when asked what her writing goals were. "The first triple threat" - she'd really said that. How had no one in class laughed in her face that day?

"Well," Lena said, "as far as that goal goes - I think I beat you?"

She turned every statement into a question. Every single one.

"And now you're in here planking to get thin because you think that'll help?" Lena chuckled. "You think if you just get thin you'll be able to do what I do, even though you're not talented?"

She managed to sound sweet and cheerful even while insulting Emma's existence.

"How does that make you feel? It must, like, really suck, right? I bet you were lying in bed thinking about your pathetic diet, right? Well guess what I ate for breakfast this morning? A fucking hand-delivered cronut."

"Please," Emma said, gathering her courage, trying to forget that she wasn't wearing a bra. "You're no better than I am. Your parents are famous. You're privileged. You went to all the best schools, you had enough money to make a feature film in your mom's gorgeous fucking SoHo apartment, I didn't have shit."

"Oh, come on, Emma," the self-proclaimed voice of a generation said. "You know nobody outside the art world knows who my mother is. I got here by working hard while you were getting wasted at night and running on the treadmill all day. Where'd all that socializing and cardio get you, huh? You're writing about me on a third-rate gossip blog. The first thing you're gonna write about when you get to work in an hour is my fucking Vogue cover. How pissed are you?"

Maybe if she left the room, Lena would be gone. As if coming out of a hypnotized state, Emma realized she didn't have to stay in this room and debate with Lena Dunham forever.

"Bye," Emma said, grabbing a towel, opening the door and slamming it behind her.

Lena was unperturbed. "See you soon!" she chirped.