I just saw a picture of Alexandria Ocasio Cortez and I thought to myself, “Wow! I haven’t thought about her in a month!”. I have no idea what’s happening with Elon Musk. I didn’t know Barbara Walters died until moments ago. I’m living in an Amish paradise (not counting Tiktok, Instagram, and my job, which is my entire life right now) because I logged out of Twitter and I immediately lost 5 pounds.
Someday I’ll pop back on. Maybe in a couple of weeks. But after the initial few days of shuffling around my phone on autopilot to waste time on the bird app but accidentally opening the Pinterest app that took its spot, I’ve lost the urge to know what other people are thinking, saying, discoursing.
That doesn’t mean I’ve lost the desire to share my own thoughts. I still have many, but I’m keeping them to myself. Like how I think that anybody who calls themselves a “mental health advocate” is delusional, and how whenever I see a person in real life with a BBL I want to throw myself off a bridge. My TikTok algorithm thinks I’m a pitbull-loving ex-Mormon with PCOS. I can’t believe how much water there is, according to a note I cryptically typed into my phone at 3am. When AI does something amazing, I feel horrible.
I wondered to myself if other people remember when we all discovered at the same time that flushing your toilet with the lid open blasted a flurry of particles on our toothbrushes. I’m not a eugenicist but I think something should be done about the horrible influencer types who flood West Hollywood juice bars and boutiques. People who talk on the phone at the gym should be forced to go into the Scientologist purification room where they run around a flashing light for hours until they collapse. You are not the main character in anything. For the last time, botox freezes your muscles so your face stops wrinkling and filler is what makes your face look fucking stupid. They’re different. There’s something to be said about Baalei Teshuva who have lived through some real shit versus Baalei Teshuva seeking an antidote for a lack of personality. When I worked at Starbucks one of my coworkers was so into Kpop that she joined a Korean church to be closer to real Korean people but it was actually a cult.
Am I a lunatic for thinking I should be able to find creme fraiche at any grocery store? I want to drive a lifted Ford F150 so every time I get out of the truck I look like a little baby bird falling out of an oak tree. Lattes are fine but latte art beyond feathers and leaves are stupid. If it sparks joy, you need to go to a museum. When I worked at a nicer cafe people would drink their lattes so that they wouldn’t disturb the shape, allowing all the foam to settle on top of the drink and denying themselves the pleasant, creamy texture a latte is supposed to have. The art should be appreciated only for a brief moment (take a photo if you absolutely insist) before being stirred. Creating anything more elaborate is a waste, a sure sign of bad coffee, and a testament to our Instagram-centric decaying visual culture of content over substance, of perceiving an experience versus living through it. I love being a chic French woman from Sweden but I love wearing tight little exercise clothes even more.
I’d invite fake Jew grifter George Santos to my shabbos table with Evonne Schwartz, who I miss dearly, and I’m flattered people want to be us for social justice points even though they don’t also want to try being beautiful. I’m slipping into the viral Amazon booty shaping leggings and pairing them with the ugliest shorts you’ve ever seen. Nobody in Beverly Hills likes art and I listen to a lot of earnest conversations about rent control sucking life out of the economy. Almond milk is not for people who love themselves.
Anyway, thanks for listening. I’m going back into my cupboard. Toodles!