I'm at a loss for where to begin, considering it's been ages since I wrote anything new on Substack. I'm not after pity; I simply hope to as I go.
When I started this newsletter, it was my escape from the daily annoyances of my old D2C copywriting job. Somehow, that mind break morphed into these overly romanticized tales of my life. Some that for some reason resonated with so many of you, and I continued writing and milking them, maybe because I craved the feeling of being different or because I needed attention, or perhaps I just felt like Hannah Horvath on opium, "A voice of a generation." And what's truly surprising to me is how all of it led to some live-reading gigs, a handful of influencer gifts, and even genuine friendships.
I know that my recent entries have all started with this kind of paragraph—long-winded and guilty. Hoping to concoct a solid enough excuse to reassure everyone, "I'll be back on such and such date," even though that date might just be a fib. "But rest assured, I'll be back regardless." And if you think I'm taking too long, that isn't nice because some of you don't know me. "Just to clarify, I'm not lazy, by the way." You get the drill.
When I shared about crossing paths with that horrid indie musician at 16 and how it sparked this curious phase of hanging out exclusively with people twice my age, I genuinely felt it was worth sharing. I hoped it would earn me some respect. From who? I don't entirely know.
The same goes for the bizarre Freudian dynamic I found myself tangled in with the workaholic I dated when I first moved here, the one I shamefully neglected my hair for. Then there was that weird stretch this time last year when I somehow found a home at the Bowery Hotel post-being laid off. At the time, I convinced myself it was the most beautiful chapter in my life. In reality, though, I desperately needed something to ease the weight on my shoulders. Something like health insurance or an antidepressant prescription. Haha.
Recently, I've been wrestling with my feelings about social media.
Years ago, I boasted about how it didn't affect my confidence or body image. But the reality was, I struggled with food intake and found myself posting selfies to a mostly male audience on Twitter.
Now that I've made progress in one area and scaled back in another, it's no surprise that I feel a bit anxious every time I log on. I find myself dissecting every post, wondering if the "influence" I once had was ever real. I question whether there was any real value in content going viral on multiple platforms, beyond shallow moments like "Jude Law's daughter liked my TikTok" or "I can't believe I'm getting all these creepy DMs on Instagram."
After leaving the Bowery, I had a moment where I tried to open up to my dad about my recent battles with depression. His response? "How? You have so many followers." I couldn't help but laugh. Charmed, but in disbelief.
It's strangely reassuring to think that if I were to vanish suddenly, there would be a handful of people wondering where I'd gone. And while I sometimes squirm thinking about my former dependence on the online world, I find joy in sharing my makeup routine on TikTok live. Yet, amidst the comments, there's a glimmer of hope as people ask if I'll return to my previous style of posting on other platforms and here on Substack.
I hope this can scratch a percentage of the itch.
Last week, a weight loss ad popped up on my TV screen. The brand showcased their sugar-coated pills in a chic, minimalist bottle, carefully crafting their pitch to avoid controversy. Still, I couldn't help but arch an eyebrow. I wondered what signals I'd sent out to make the TV think I needed such a product. So, I did some digging, only to find out the main ingredient was Bupropion—an antidepressant I once leaned on to manage my clinical anxiety and depression.
It's baffling how a drug known for causing tinnitus is now being marketed for vanity. Now, for $80, people can not only overdose on vitamins until their urine glows neon but also risk permanent hearing damage.
I often reflect on the day my parents sat my brother and me down and announced we were moving to Houston, TX, in search of a better life. They painted a picture of a bright future, promising us an education like no other. But it wasn't until recently that my mother confided in me her deep disappointment in the United States. She cited the prevalence of right-leaning politics, unnecessary violence, and other glaring issues that she found hard to ignore.
Here I am, skilled but without a college degree, with a decent job and a mountain of unpaid student loans. I design ads that never seem to find their way to me on social media—thanks to being part of that elusive A/B test group I never asked to be in.
Lately, as my friends and colleagues venture to my home country in pursuit of the color my parents deemed unsuitable for me, my life in America takes on a sepia tone.
At least that's how I feel right now, and that's simply a reflection of my recent cynicism.
𝒜𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔.
𝐼𝓃𝓈𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓂 + 𝒯𝓌𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 + 𝐿𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒷𝑜𝓍𝒹
/)/)
( . .)
( づ♡
<3
shoutout to the GRWM’s lol but parasocialism is an odd but relatively new subject but social media itself is an interesting topic to delve deep into, esp the affect it’ll have on generations to come, but alas, that’s how we’re here isn’t it?