Since the June release of her critically acclaimed album Brat, Charli XCX has been making appearances exuding its titular ethos. Though the concept of “brat” has always been a little indefinable, all you’ve needed to do to understand it has been to look at XCX—her messy, chic black hair; pursed lips; and huge sunglasses all embody the je ne sais quoi of someone who has been out all night partying.

It seems these days
every poem is a failed elegy
for the world. Each one
asks correctly, what good
did writing this do? I cannot
deny I often feel anger
at the similarities between me
and an oil company, especially
on what is once again
the hottest day ever recorded.
It is so easy to do nothing
except lament our success
at writing useless laments.
I must confess I too
once wrote a ridiculous elegy
for a broken nail clipper.

This essay contains spoilers.
The new movie Conclave is a faithful adaptation of Robert Harris’s 2016 novel—and an absurd portrait of the Catholic Church. A thriller about the politicking that occurs when cardinals gather to elect a new pope, it depicts a clash between racist conservatives and supposedly insightful liberals who talk like a cross between an HR manual and a greeting card.

A person who is “on the couch” is known to be in therapy, but most therapists these days don’t ask their clients to lie down. The first time mine did, I resisted. I didn’t want to be on display or unable to see her reactions. Plus, the idea seemed antiquated. Sigmund Freud was inspired to use the couch more than a century after observing dramatic hypnotherapy demonstrations by his teacher Jean-Martin Charcot.

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Welcome back to The Daily’s Sunday culture edition, in which one Atlantic writer or editor reveals what’s keeping them entertained.