I wished Miley dead, Miley and her Wonder World Miley and her makeup team, but I suppose I didn’t want to watch her die, because when she choked on a giant smart phone I called out: Miley Miley can you talk can you cough can you sing? and pounded between her shoulder blades with three sharp blows which failed to dislodge the giant smart phone and Miley fell down ringing, reaching with taupe fingernails for my unpolished toes; so I suppose I imagined it was me falling backwards through softball practice and family dinners, a turkey drumstick all turning to glitter, when from some magic well I pulled a starlet Heimlich maneuver until her voicemail gurgle became a steady breath and her instant messenger a tumultuous cough— her highlights sparkled as she burst into song— and the texting halted and the vibrating stopped.