All of the Substack girls seem to also have a Letterboxd and Goodreads, but I only have this app (I am, however, a fan of the Substack/Pinterest/Spotify holy trinity). I’ve never felt very qualified to review the media I consume—I consider myself easily entertained, but I also have the capacity to be easily bored. And to be honest, I’m scared of being publicly clocked for my incorrect opinions. However, I do like to take note of all of it, so here are my notes and a few objective (hopefully correct) takes on the movies, shows, books, and products that entertained me this month.

Shows I’ve been watching

Gilmore Girls (season 1)

• People have been telling me I need to watch this show for the last five years and I finally listened. I wish I took their advice earlier because it’s the perfect feel good fall TV to have on before you go to sleep. Season 1 was so cute but I’ve heard it goes downhill as time goes on so I’m a little scared…but I still really like what I’ve watched of season 2. Loving the Lorelai and Luke slow burn. I think I’m on the episode where Rory joins the puffs.

Hijack

• I think most shows fall into two categories: phone or no phone. Phone shows are the ones you love, but you can check Instagram or text your friend back periodically while you’re watching and you won’t miss much. No phone shows are the ones where it might as well be powered off and at the other end of the house from you, because you’re so locked in that you’re willing to stay up until 3am to finish it. This was the first season of Hijack for me (although I did end up going to sleep before 3am because I started it too late at night). It takes place in the span of 6(?) hours and is pretty much literally what the title says—a plane being hijacked. The second season had me a bit less on the edge of my seat, but still a great no phone show nonetheless.

Lucky

• It’s ironic that I ended up writing the most about the show I liked the least. To be honest, I was not riveted by this show (also on Apple TV). Didn’t hate it, didn’t love it. Some of the dialogue felt like lines that would be written in a book but not actually said in real life. Maybe take that with a grain of salt because I watched this around the same time as Sterling Point, which we will get to very soon. The only time I felt bad for Lucky was maybe a little at the end of episode 4 (iykyk) but aside from that, I couldn’t emotionally connect to her character at all, so I was pretty indifferent to the whole thing.

• I felt the same way about the ending: it was good, but not enough to get me excited for the second season if there ends up being one. I kind of hope there’s not, but I’d probably watch it if there was because I don’t like leaving shows unfinished. Also, the only other time I've seen Drew Starkey in something is Outer Banks, and I’m not seeing a lot of diversity in his acting so far because Rafe and Cary could be the exact same person.

Sterling Point

• I had to save the best for last. This was truly the summer show we all needed. My mom and I have a joke where we refer to gay people as “festive”, and I described this series to her as similar to Christmas (she loved it as much as I did, of course). Lesbian representation aside, people are not lying when they say it perfectly displays the way Gen Z actually talks; that was my first thought after only watching the first episode and without seeing any of the social media discourse. Personally, I’m team Ellis and very excited to see what happens in the second season.

Movies I’ve been watching

People We Meet on Vacation

• This one was so good and such a well done movie adaptation of a book. I love a good extrovert girl + introvert guy because that’s my parents. I’ve read all of Emily Henry’s books except Book Lovers (although it’s next on my TBR) and Funny Story, and PWMOV might be my favorite of hers. I did really like beach read, but I read it around 3 years ago, so I’m planning to reread before the movie comes out since I don’t really remember it enough to give an accurate judgment. But my ranking so far is: PWMOV, GBBL, Happy Place (I still enjoyed it but I liked the others more).

Books I’ve been reading

Every Summer After

• Confession: I have not finished a book this month, which disappoints me to say. The past week of being in school again has been way busier than I thought. I’m only including this on the list as a way to say that I did at least start a book, because I usually only include movies/books/seasons of shows that I’ve finished. But so far it’s really cute, I think I’m about 100 pages in. Love a good beach read (or I guess in this case, lake read).

Music I’ve been listening to

petal - Ariana Grande

• This was underwhelming for me, although it’s grown on me since I first listened. My first impression directly after listening to the album was that it had the same vibe as Rainbow Road from Mario Kart (okay, maybe I was just playing a lot of Mario Kart at the time but I still stand by my statement). It had very futuristic outer space energy. I’m not the biggest Ariana fan out there, but I think I have listened to all of her albums at some point, even though I don’t remember a lot of the songs from her older ones.

• However, I will say nothing will ever do it the way thank u, next does. That was the first album I was ever obsessed with, and at 12 years old I was streaming the absolute shit out of it on the morning bus, as well as everywhere else.

Olivia Rodrigo

• If you haven’t listened to you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love this summer, you haven’t truly lived. Like all Filipinos (myself included), everything Olivia Rodrigo does is perfection. I already know she’ll be in my Spotify wrapped, and I think this will end up being my favorite album of hers. It feels so coming of age movie soundtrack and there’s not a single skip. My top 3 would probably be the cure, u + me = <3, and maggots for brains. It’s the absolute perfect walking-to-class music for these warm sunny days. I’ve been streaming not just this album but all of her discography because I’m going to see her at the end of September! So excited 😁

Lizzy McAlpine

• My best friend and I, as certified fangirls and music lovers, created our personal holy trinities of music artists on the way back from a trip this summer. And yet again, with her recent release of Ugly things, Lizzy lives up to the Jesus Christ label I gave her (Taylor Swift is God and Billie Eilish is the Holy Spirit, if you’re wondering). It gave me chills the first three times I listened to it—the way she does a build and a beat drop (I don’t know if that’s the right term) that really hits you is amazing. If you love Pushing it Down and Praying you’ll LOVE this one. Though rest assured, that’s not the only song of hers I listen to. After I heard Ceilings for the first time, I listened to all of her discography and never went back. Of course I’m also obsessed with The light in the painting, but I wanted to give Ugly things its moment.

Hamilton

• This summer felt very full circle from six summers ago, or the one after I’d finished seventh grade, for two reasons. One, I’m having my influencer moment on a niche app (six years ago it was Pinterest, and I’ll eventually post an essay explaining that whole experience).

• Two, I became obsessed with Hamilton again. It started because I remembered it existed one day and just wanted to test my memory of the lyrics. That’s how it gets its claws in you, and then all you’re doing for the next month is trying to match the pace of Daveed Diggs in Guns and Ships. If he ever returned to play Lafayette/Jefferson on Broadway, I would go into debt without a second thought to buy tickets. However, for my early birthday present, I’m trying to convince my parents to take me to see Christopher Jackson on Broadway this fall. Not only would I get to hear the superior version of One Last Time in person, but I’d also be 19 and hear the lyric “I’m only 19, but my mind is older.” Let’s hope they eventually say yes.

Lost Weekend - Phoebe Bridgers

• I’m listening as I write this. The great Phoebe comeback of 2026 is what we all needed and I can’t wait to add it to my vinyl collection, since I have both of her solo albums and everything from boygenius already. I love it, and this may be due to recency bias but I do think I like her older ones better. It may grow on me more with time, though. My favorite track so far is Bobby, and I think it’s hilarious that that’s what she calls Bo Burnham. He’s just a silly comically tall man.

Things I’ve been buying

Squishies from TikTok Shop

• I now have five different ones, which is ridiculous to be honest. But hey, some people do coke (see this essay for context). My favorite is the Chiboki toothpaste, because it’s so soft but also holds its shape when you squeeze it. The crunchy butter is definitely a close second, though. I do not regret a single one of these purchases, even though they were all overpriced. I can’t promise I won’t buy a sixth.

Byoma milky toner

• I got this because I heard it was a dupe for the Rhode glazing milk, so as a broke college student I had to try it and started using it before my moisturizer in the morning/retinol at night. So far I really like it, and as someone with sensitive skin it hasn’t been irritating or made me break out at all. 10/10

Going out tops

• Shoutout to PacSun for giving me a $10 coupon if I spent $50 the last time I ordered something. So of course, I had to spend my $50. What can I say, I’m a college girl. Yes, I have my fun little Substack and love a night in writing and watching Gilmore Girls with my favorite snacks, but yes, I also love a night out. Anyways, I got a corset top and a black v-neck tank which my mom mistook for an undershirt. Maybe I don’t need to be showing her my going out tops.

Oil blotting sheets

• I haven’t tested these over top of my makeup yet, but on my bare skin they work great! I just got the generic Target brand because I didn’t know if I would like them as a product and they were the cheapest. But after a few hours of being outside, my face starts to resemble a reflection pond, so I definitely needed these.

I did not expect this to be so wordy, but I’m glad you came along for the ride anyway! I don’t know if I need to say this, but I am not sponsored by any of these brands or products and I am simply writing this for the love of the game. No one asked for this and it is not really my usual content, but I’m unburdened by the concept of having a niche. I write whatever I want. See you with another one of these in a month, and maybe another essay on Monday??? Idk yet we’ll see where life, school, and my writing motivation takes me.

Oh & drop a comment if you want to share your opinions or ask questions about anything I listed! I’ll do my best to get back to you :)

I’ve noticed over the past few years on social media that it’s common for young straight women to leave jokingly sexual comments to their friends. I’m sure we’ve all seen a variation of the post that’s like “when I get a new comment on Instagram but it’s just my hg saying ‘I’m wearing the lacy black ones you like.’” The humor in remarks like this is that they come from a person who you plainly and obviously don’t want to have sex with—your fellow straight girl best friend.

When I say these kinds of things, I wonder if the same level of comedy is still there because I’m not a straight girl. All my friends know that mascs are more my type than fems. When I come out to new people, I make sure that’s one of the first things I mention, so they know I’m not going to fall in love with them down the line. But do they still have that thought in the back of their head later on, knowing I’m not like them? Do they wonder if there is any truth to my words?

Or even more alarmingly, I ask myself if me saying this to my friend is like if a man said it to her, because we’re both attracted to women. Why did men have to ruin being attracted to women like that (example A: I was at a frat this weekend, a guy told me he was gay to which I replied “same,” his guy friend said that he was a lesbian too because he liked girls).

In my high school friend group of six girls, three of us were lesbians. We jokingly commented on the fact that each of us represented a different type of lesbian. One was the “little boy,” the granola girl who shopped in the men’s section. Another was the “rainbow,” the name coming from the many colors in her closet and her endless collection of neon earrings. I was the “undercover.” I wore Brandy Melville and Hollister and was a girly girl. No one would ever guess I was gay. The difference between the other two and me was that their queerness was obvious, and I fit in more seamlessly with the other high school girls.

Sometimes, I refer to myself as a lululesbian. I truly do look like any other straight girl, by choice, and enjoy all the girly things that are considered basic (aside from wearing heels: ironic because I’m 4’10”, but they absolutely kill my feet). There have been occasions when I felt like a spy, animated birthday party conversations about boys where I just smiled and nodded along, no one knowing that I didn’t like them.

I’ve never had a girlfriend or posted anything on my Instagram that obviously stated I was gay. Unless you’re friends with me or stalking my replies to comments, you would never have any idea. So there comes a point in all my friendships where I have to make some sort of “coming out” statement. Usually, that’s because one of them asks if I’ve ever had a boyfriend or if there are any guys I like, to which I reply that I don’t like guys (but no, I’ve never had a girlfriend either).

This isn’t to say I’m not proud of my sexuality—I definitely am. I love that I love women. My family is as supportive as you can imagine. My mother is the type of white liberal politically outspoken Facebook mom who wants to offer free hugs at local pride parades, and every day is on the phone with her sister in a lively discussion about how fucked up our government is. But my stomach still twists nervously when I come out to someone.

I know a person who will want to distance themselves after I tell them I’m gay is not a real friend in the first place. Still, the possibility of someone who I thought was nice no longer liking me because of my sexuality (in 2026!) is disappointing, to say the least. I do not at all wish I was straight; I do wish that no one would think I’m weird for not being straight, that they would still see me as just like everyone else.

Growing up, I always wanted to be one of the cool girly girls, and at the same time I have always been girly. I love pink and shopping and doing my makeup and all the stereotypical things. The only way I differ from the others, ironically, is with my love for women. If that’s too out of the ordinary for them, then so be it: I think it makes me even girlier. And to quote a friend after I came out to her, even cooler.

Anyway, to all my straight girl friends: I’m gay but not for you, I promise. Drop the Victoria’s Secret haul, though, because a girl needs to know if the sale is worth it.

Hey girls and gays thank you so much for reading this one! I’m soooo busy this week so I can’t promise an essay next Monday which makes me sad bc I would love to write one. But in the next few days, I’m posting a recap of all the media I consumed this month with some short reviews! So hopefully that makes up for it :) see you soon

Almost ten years later, we still live in the same place, and I was right to be happy about those material aspects. Without us moving, I wouldn’t have my own room or the dog I begged my parents for. But I’m a thousand times more grateful for the people that our new residence brought us: my two neighbors, who became two of my favorite people.

I met them a couple days after I moved in. One was a year younger than me, the other two years younger. I knew them from tennis classes we’d taken together, but we hadn’t spent enough time with each other to be friends. They invited me to the younger one’s backyard to run around in the sprinkler and play Red Light, Green Light. We ran and laughed and splashed and they asked me to play again the next day. That was the beginning of us--or the group chat we named “bff” in a fun font, surrounded by unicorn, sushi, and pineapple emojis.

Because of them, I’d describe my next three summers living in the new house as the purest form of childhood friendship. A regular day in my 11-year-old life looked like this: I’d wake up, walk out my garage door, and ring all my neighbor friends’ doorbells, asking whoever answered “Can [insert friend’s name] play?” If it was nice, we’d set up the slip and slide, water slide, or sprinkler in someone’s yard, maybe even throwing in a water balloon fight for good measure. The faint music of the ice cream truck would grow louder, and we’d run into the street for our popsicles, still barefoot and dripping wet. After finishing our treats and changing our clothes, we’d spend the rest of the day alternating between the three of our houses to hang out: playing Roblox at one, choreographing a group dance and karaoke performance at the other. Life was blissful and joyful and perfect.

Despite our tight-knit friendship, it was clear to me that they were the duo in our trio. After all, their families had been close since they were babies. They’d spent basically their whole lives side by side. But what I loved about our friendship is that it never felt that way when the three of us were together—we were a perfect trio all the same. We even had a few matching outfits that we’d coordinate every so often: a rainbow Old Navy shirt with pink sweat shorts, a magenta hooded tee that read FEARLESS in vibrant letters. Occasionally, we’d argue but in the way that sisters do: disagree, feelings get hurt, say sorry, knock on their door the next sunny day asking if they wanted to make slime on my driveway.

Middle school began for me, and I hadn’t yet developed the social awareness that other kids had. I wore unicorn shirts and patterned leggings while the girls in my classes wore American Eagle and ripped skinny jeans. I had friends, but I wasn’t popular at all. In my gym period, I was the one who never had a buddy for the games. Actually, I’m pretty sure a girl was forced to be my partner for a month. But when I came home at the end of the day, none of that mattered. My truest friends weren’t in the same grade as me, but they were there after school ended to bake pineapple cupcakes with sprinkles, pick flowers on the neighborhood trail, become an alliance in Roblox Survivor so we could vote out everyone else in the server (the summer after this year was the one where we convinced our parents to buy us Robux for matching usernames).

In my seventh-grade year, COVID hit. With us being neighbors and unable to see any of our classmates, we only became closer. We spent hours upon hours FaceTiming while building Bloxburg houses (we had coordinating ones at a point in time). One of them got a golden retriever puppy and we’d put on our masks to visit and teach him tricks. When we were vaccinated and could finally take them off, we went shopping and made Build-A-Bears together to celebrate one girl’s fourteenth birthday. Even as I began high school, we remained best friends, constantly at each other’s houses and planning group costumes for the next two Halloweens.

By the time I entered my junior year, both of my friends had started high school as well, which meant everything was busier. Homework, extracurriculars, our school friend groups. Our almost daily hangouts faded into weekly, then monthly, then when I went off to college texts to let them know when I’d be back and the occasional debrief when I had off from school. Our most recent before today was one of their grad parties, almost two months ago.

We made plans to hang out today, talk while we baked something, before I went back to college in the next week. They’re seventeen and eighteen now, and cooler than I was at their ages. As I got out the ingredients for the recipe, I worried out loud to my mom (usual activity before anyone at all comes over to my house). Was baking the right idea? Would anyone get bored?

“You don’t have to worry about entertaining them,” she reassured me. “They’ll just hang out like always.”

And, like always, my mom was right. From the second they walked in the door, we fell into easy conversation with not a single awkward gap. While playing with my squishy collection, we updated each other on every milestone we’d missed: breakups, first kisses, friendship troubles (the latter were mine due to my lack of relationship experience, but both of them let me know I’d dodged a bullet by being gay and not having to deal with guys). We fell over laughing and then spitting forcefully into the trash can, spooning sugar straight from the container into our mouths after tasting our brownie dough and realizing we accidentally swapped 1 and 2/3 cups of sugar for salt. We reminisced on old times when our cookie skillet came out good and remembered the previous treats we’d baked in my kitchen.

As I walked one girl out the door with her leftovers in hand, the warm buzz of happiness spilled from my chest and into words that left my mouth. “This is kind of sappy, but I love how even when we don’t see each other for months, we get back together and it’s always the same. We never run out of things to talk about.”

She grinned and agreed, my other friend chiming in, “That’s how it is with the people you grow up with.”

And in that moment, I truly felt Olivia Rodrigo’s lyric in my whole body: I know everybody changes, but I hope that we don’t. I know we’ll all be in different cities in a year from now, but I hope that we spend way too long sitting in the car just talking on our breaks from school to make up for all the distance between us. I hope I get to tell them all about my first kiss one day, and we bond over this the same way we did when we all finally had our periods. And I hope we’re at each other’s weddings one day, and when we see each other in our dresses we will see the tween girls who put our best clothes on our Roblox characters in hopes of finding a date for the Royale High midnight dance.

We may have grown apart since our elementary school days, yet we have always been there for each other, talking about everything with squishies in hand since 2017. And I’m so lucky to be a part of something so special.

Thanks for reading this one! I wrote this immediately after our baking hangout that day, so when I say “today” I don’t actually mean today. But I love writing about the people I love. Expect my four day upload schedule to become once a week or maybe less bc my FDOC was today and I’m taking 18 credits. Please send positive manifestations that I get all A’s this semester :)

I can’t tell you anything about the day I created it. Sometime in or before junior year, maybe even sophomore? I probably start at least five new notes app entries a day and they all blur together. But what I do know is that the title and subtitle remain unchanged from whatever day that was. “quote book for myself” with the subtitle “in case i ever need to be reminded how iconic i am!”

While the actual date I came up with this idea escapes me, the motivation for it still sticks in my memory. On an evening where I was catastrophizing in my diary and reading through all my old entries to figure out where I went wrong in life (again, this also happens often so the days blur together), something funny I said caught my eye. It pulled me out of my anxiety spiral, made me realize I wasn’t a complete failure. So I decided to collect all these funny comments, the same way I do with my friends to reminisce on the times we laughed until we cried during our lunch period.

I looked through the past few months of journaling and typed out anything that made me smile. Then I started adding quotes not only from my diary, but also when I talk to myself out loud because I don’t feel like writing, as one does. I know the context for some of the lines I write down, and others I completely forget. A few PG favorites include “my mental illness is really fucking up my birth chart,” “I need a girlfriend for couples costume purposes,” and “Sometimes we as smart people fail to comprehend others’ stupidity.” There exist many more entertaining and, in my opinion, funnier ones that I’d rather not share online, but you get the gist.

Sometimes I ask myself, why do I do this? But then I simply remember that it’s fun for me, and I think that should be a good enough explanation. What’s the harm in doing something if you’re enjoying yourself and not hurting anyone? The true reasoning does go beyond that, though.

In the times when I suddenly forget all aspects of social interaction and say or do something that makes me want to fling myself off the nearest building in the city, I can remind myself I’m not like this all the time. I actually say things that are smart and funny and witty. Apparently not in the presence of other people. But I do say them.

Reading through it also reminds me to chill out. When I come up with any quote worth documenting, I’m in a state where the words flow from my brain to my mouth most smoothly: by myself. But that doesn’t mean that I can only say smart things alone, just that I should try to keep that same relaxed mindset when I’m with others. The less anxious I get about social interactions, the more outgoing and clever I’ll actually be.

I actually think it’s the next best thing to recording the happy moments in our lives and looking back at them later. Although we don’t have footage of all the times we perfectly added on to a conversation, documenting the thoughts we’re proud of reminds us that we do have highs like that when we’re actually talking to people, even if the lows are the only things that stick out to us.

Especially as women, it’s so important to pour a little more audacity, self-confidence, cockiness into ourselves (although we may never reach the same level that a straight white man has, and that is for the best). Don’t be ashamed to remind yourself when you’re having a bad day, or any type of day, that you are in fact an intelligent person who expresses their ideas in an intelligent way. Own the fact that you’re genuinely funny and cool and take pride in that.

Currently, I don’t have any intentions of showing my quote book to anyone I know in real life. I like having little things that are just for me. And even as someone who’s socially awkward, I do have a feeling that “hey, look at this document full of all the coolest things I’ve ever said” might not be the smoothest conversation starter. But I’ll keep it and continue adding to it in the next few days, weeks, months, and maybe years—in my own words, “whenever I need to be reminded how iconic I am.”

Please forgive me for the edits and amount of times I said “things” in this article. I published this from my drafts while standing in a Costco waiting for my dad to order my new phone. Which means more storage & more notes app essays :)

Right now, they aren’t perfect. But they’ve been in a pretty good spot for most of the year, which is why I feel somewhat qualified to give this advice. Take it as you will (and know that when I said “girl” in the title it was meant in a gender-neutral way, I just thought “a girl’s guide” sounded cool).

Get them professionally done

This is the most basic suggestion I can give you. People who are actually trained at doing eyebrows are going to give you the best results. But unfortunately, this doesn’t work for me for two reasons. The first being that everything has grown back around two weeks after I wax it all off, and I don’t have the type of money for that type of maintenance. And the second being, I use Differin (a retinol brand) on my face which makes my skin more sensitive to high temperatures—meaning that when I try to get them waxed it literally peels a layer of skin off my face and leaves a mark for a week. I have learned this the hard way twice, and had to make emergency trips to my local pharmacy also twice.

And let me add a third: if you’re still reading, you were probably hoping for better advice than just “get them professionally done.” So the rest of the advice will be things that you can follow on your own, with a light hand and a pair of tweezers. However, I do think it’s a really good use of your money to get them done somewhere at least once if you can, and then just maintain that shape on your own.

Keep your natural shape

When you do your eyebrows, the point is to make them a little better than they look naturally. LITTLE is key here. I know you’ve probably heard it from your moms or millennial women on TikTok a million times, but I cannot stress this enough: do not overpluck. I have done it many times and there is never a good outcome. You should try to define the shape you already have, not change it. If you naturally have straight brows and try to pluck them to be arched, it won’t look as good, and vice versa. Or if you have thick ones and you make them too thin.

A good rule of thumb if you’ve lost the plot of your natural brow shape is going for a soft arch and medium thickness, and then working from there. There have been times I’ve looked at pictures of my younger self just so I can refresh my memory of what they are actually supposed to look like.

Also, this isn’t to say that giving yourself unnaturally shaped brows will instantly make you look terrible. I just think that enhancing your natural shape tends to be the most universally flattering.

Maintain the shape constantly

If you’re like me, you’ll sometimes get your eyebrows to be amazing and be thrilled about it for a week. When you go to do them the next week, you think you’re just fixing up the shape you’ve already created but find them looking a little different. The next week comes around, you fix them again, and all of a sudden they don’t look that great. What happened?

Personally, I’ve found that waiting a full week or longer between doing my brows lets too much new hair grow in. I say this as a girl with thick hair, so if you have thinner or lighter brows, leaving more time between alterations may work for you. But I always end up forgetting to pluck a few hairs or plucking a few too many, which over time changes an originally good shape. My solution to this: every 2-3 days when I’m doing my skincare, I pluck the stray hairs that are just growing in. That way, it’s easier to tell exactly which ones are out of place.

Of all of these rules, I’d say that this one has been the most helpful to me when it comes to keeping my eyebrows looking good as long as possible. If I spend 5-10 minutes most days a week touching them up, I don’t have to sit down for 30+ minutes another day trying to get them to be perfect and probably ruining them in some way.

Fix them when they look good

Inevitably, unless you are personally blessed by the brow gods there will come a time when you fuck them up and tell yourself that you’ve ruined them forever, you’re an ugly failure and never coming back from this. Trust me, you will because I have had about a hundred of these moments. So don’t catastrophize just yet.

The first step to fixing them is not being afraid to let them be wild and free for a bit while the regrowth comes in and doesn’t match everything else. In other words, bad. I know this is hard to hear, but if you want to get back your thick eyebrows that’s the only way to do it. Know that this too shall pass and they’ll eventually be tea again. From about March to October of last year mine were way too thin, and finally after Halloweekend (because my brows couldn’t be bad then okay) I grew them back, and I am still thankful for that decision every day.

But once everything is regrown and they’re in that not the worst but not the best phase, my advice is kind of abstract but simple. Fix them whenever they actually look good. For me, sometimes right when I get out of the shower they’re slicked in the perfect way. Or maybe it’s when you wake up or after your workout. But whenever you see a moment where your brows look better than usual, seize that moment and pluck around whatever is perfectly shaped. That just might be what you need to take them from looking bad to good again.

I know from personal experience that eyebrows are hard to master, but just like anything else, I learned these tips from trial and error as time went by. My final words of wisdom: don’t overpluck. Or else, my mother and I will personally drive (or fly) over and lock up your tweezers.

I know this is different from what I usually write, but I hope you liked it regardless! I’m a big fan of all things skincare/makeup/beauty related so lmk if you would like to see similar advice or product recs in the future. But there will be many more personal essays ahead 😌

August 13 colors outside the lines on purpose, with the green-yellow crayon that you take out of the box because you mistake it for yellow and now you’ve ruined your picture.

The month of August is a liminal space: Target runs, red shopping carts and giant blue bags packed full. Moving out of your house, moving in to your apartment, two-week notices, new job applications, end of summer, back to school.

The thirteenth day of the month is ominous, mischievous. Maybe this is how Taylor Swift, the queen of this number, felt turning the words “trolling and memes” into song lyrics. I make fun of her with love and admiration for all her other work, except for that line. Perhaps she wrote it on August 13 and the evil spirit made her do it.

Together, the month and the day are nefarious partners in crime. They’ll become my sleep paralysis demons when I close my eyes tonight, escape through the crack in the closet door and cover my mouth to muffle my screams. It’s almost one a.m. right now—feels like the time something like that should happen. Or when everyone gets slaughtered in a horror movie.

Sorry, that was morbid. I don’t even know why I said that, I hate horror movies. Also, writing this feels like a bad omen for today-tomorrow: a term I invented just now for when you haven’t gone to sleep yet and it’s past midnight, so when you wake up it will actually just be later today, but you still call any planned activities for after the sun rises tomorrow in your head.

Today-tomorrow I am doing very August 13 activities; a Target run with my mom to fill up a red shopping cart and pack my giant blue bags. I move out in eight days. Having spent most of the summer at home, my brain is flooded with happiness at the thought of returning to my college city, reuniting with my closest friends. But it coexists with the sadness of being a four-hour drive away from my family, my mother’s home-cooked meals. The bright yellow happiness and foggy blue sadness swirl together until what’s left is a dull chartreuse.

I dip a spoon in to taste, and my tongue recoils, face scrunching up. Too sour. I’ll just take the happiness, thank you. The sadness is pushed to the back burner, left on low. I’ll check on it in a couple days.

This piece was very experimental and not planned at all. I kind of thought of the first sentence and just ran with it for an hour. Very stream of consciousness. I’ve been trying to keep a consistent posting schedule, but the evil August 13 spirit overtook me and hit “send to all subscribers now.”

But when I become interested in any show or movie or celebrity, or really any piece of media, it’s all I can think about. As soon as the credits roll, I’m already on AO3 filtering the search results for my favorite couple. When I go to sleep that night, I’m mentally picturing my own fanfiction (especially if I’m disappointed by the lack of quality works I discovered). It’s gotten to a point where I am able to recognize my obsession with whatever entertainment I’ve consumed as it hits me, but that doesn’t stop it.

The same goes for music. My fangirl tendencies make me want to know as much as I possibly can about whoever I am listening to at the moment. After seeing Faye Webster in concert a few years ago, I spent hours reading through any interview of her I could find. And don’t get me started on Billie Eilish—I’ve probably watched every single YouTube video she’s featured in.

What I’ve noticed most recently, though, as I’ve been reading more this summer is the way my brain reacts to finishing a book I like. I find my internal monologue written in its style of prose. When I talk to myself (because we all do, right?) the voice sounds more like the main character’s than my own. For a moment, I feel as if I’ve stepped into their life. As a psychology major and just a nosy girl in general, that’s something I’ve always dreamed of.

I yearn to know as much as possible about the people in my life as well as the people outside of it. I’m the friend who’s always down for a  lore drop and eavesdrops on the conversations of the table next to me in the library. When I was little, I read well above my grade level—my mom would have her morning coffee or tea each day and while leaning on her shoulder, I’d read all the posts in her Facebook feed as she scrolled on her laptop. There were times she gave me her phone to play a game on and I’d start looking through her texts instead (I’m sorry, Mom).

So when my best friend introduced me to Substack, it felt like my wish had been granted. Not only did I get a peek into her brain, but so many others. Stories that made me laugh, open my mouth in shock, reflect on the state of the world.

My saved essays are overflowing and I like to read about all sorts of topics. But my favorites are the diary entries. The ones that explain their inside jokes and leave you remembering them days later, feeling like you’ve gotten to know a stranger a little bit more. They reminded me of my own notes app diary entries, chronicles of my inner thoughts and whoever I was obsessing over at the moment. So I decided to type up a few that were a little more polished, the chaos in my brain better articulated, with a slight storyline—and I rediscovered my love for writing I hadn’t really thought about in years.

It took me a few weeks to decide I wanted to give this an actual name. In the end, I chose this one because I want you to feel like you’ve stepped inside my life for a couple minutes (it also just popped into my head the way I imagined the most fitting title would). My goal is for you to feel the same way I do when I finish the perfect chapter of a book or episode of a show. So I’ll be here whenever you need a break from your own brain, and want to try a piece of someone else’s.

Of course I had to shout out my best friend, she deserves everyone’s subscription. Thanks so much for reading as always 🥰

I feel like consumerism is something I should be more against. I’m opposed to it as a concept, but at four months away from turning twenty I just bought a pink crunchy butter squishy on TikTok Shop for $14. To many, this sentence might read similarly to the title of that Jimmy Fallon video that’s like “Sydney Sweeney tries to guess what’s behind her: 3 Labubus doing 67 at a McDonalds.”

If you’re still here, reading this new sentence, and didn’t close out of this article after the last one to sigh in pure rage at what the world has come to, I’m so grateful you’re with me and have decided to hear me out despite my ridiculously overpriced purchase. I’ve made a few in my lifetime.

I love to shop and collect little things that a lot of people might think are useless, like squishies and Jellycats and a 37th tank top. At least I actually use them, I tell myself. The Jellycats decorate my room, and I’ve played with my coconut oil-filled toothpaste bottle so much the label has faded away. And I wear all 37. (I hope that number is an exaggeration, but there is a possibility it isn’t). So even though I recognize these purchases are unnecessary, I think I make them in a cooler and more mindful way than everyone else. I don’t just get stuff and throw it away a few days or weeks later (which, alarmingly, so many people do), I enjoy it.

After all, aren’t there way worse things to be buying? Let me remind you (sorry in advance, you were likely better off forgetting) that MAGA superstores are real establishments that exist in the current world we live in right now, not just in hell (we are in hell). People buy shit from those. I’m sure if they were selling literal, actual shit and not just its equivalent, some brainwashed person out there would still buy it.

I know other people who spend much more money much more unnecessarily than I do have this exact same train of thought—I’ve seen countless videos about it. Reassuring me that it’s okay to have a third iced coffee, or a Rhode lippie, or a Parke mock neck, because some people do coke! Yellow font.

It kind of made me wonder, how much is okay to buy in the name of others doing coke? Is there a hidden moral scale behind the scenes, like in The Good Place? Maybe a $500 Free People haul doesn’t tip it below the coke point because $500 at Free People is like four things. Maybe five on Black Friday. But a $500 SHEIN haul does because child labor and 100% polyester are worse than cocaine.

I think most of our moral discernment when it comes to choosing companies to support involves weighing three things: the quality, who runs it, and its tangible impact. We might look the other way at a business that’s probably doing damage if we can’t immediately prove it, but draw the line at the confirmation that our money is physically hurting someone.

If you’ve watched the Brandy Hellville documentary, you know that the people running the company are terrible—but their clothes are relatively cheap, 100% cotton, and made in the USA. While the owners of Brandy might be just as bad as the ones responsible for SHEIN1, your clothes will last a while and aren’t exploiting 9-year-olds trying to help support their families. To a lot of us, that makes all the difference.

And let’s face it: especially as young college students, a lot of us will choose the lower price point over the brand with better values. A lot of CEOs aren’t great people anyway, so what difference does it make? I’m not trying to argue that buying from Brandy Melville is inherently a good choice, or say that the material of their clothes justifies their one size policy, but I’ll admit I do it and probably will again in the future.

My humble opinion is that the world (especially America) sucks in a lot of ways right now, so we should just try to be good people and get things that make us happy within reason. You could probably bean soup theory the fuck out of this statement and analyze what it truly means to be good or buy something “within reason.” But I think we know in our hearts the difference between getting something a little silly (third iced coffee) and wasting a ton of money (all 21 available colors of the Garage sleek scoop cami top). If you’re going to be a shopaholic, at least be self-aware. Maybe sell some things on Depop.

I’m going to be so honest with you, I have two more squishies in my TikTok Shop cart right now, because my last two purchases earned me a coupon from the storefront. I think I’ll stop at that, though. Four is enough—then again, some people do coke.

I had a lot of fun writing this. I crack myself up (get it crack see what I did there) okay I’ll stop now. But as someone who’s always writing super introspectively and trying to isolate the deepest reasoning behind all of my actions it was nice to write something that made me laugh. Hope you enjoyed as much as I did :)

My North Face backpack finally bit the dust. I’d gotten it my freshman year of high school, and it lasted until the end of my freshman year of college, when the hole torn in the back exposing the foam became difficult to ignore. So I ordered a new one from Vera Bradley, and it arrived at my house a few days ago. Taking it out of the packaging, I held it up to my sister to ask if she liked it.

It’s important to note that my sister is 13, and currently in the phase of life where she rolls her eyes at anything “basic” and draws on thick black eyeliner wings anytime she leaves the house. Her reaction to my backpack was, for this reason, kinder than I expected: she grimaced but wiped it off her face in record time, gave an unsure “yeah,” and finally commented after a few seconds that it was “very bright.”

And, as you’ll see in the photo below, she was right! Especially considering the fact that the previous North Face book bag I mentioned was entirely black with a white logo, with my old Hydro Flask following the exact same color scheme. I’m sure she was just surprised at the fact that it wasn’t my usual aesthetic.

The word “aesthetic” seems so ridiculous and stupid now. I say that as if I don’t use it often, but it automatically makes my mind go to the color linen in Bloxburg house builds and the lofi YouTube intro music found in those same videos (if you know what I’m talking about, congratulations on your 12+ hour screen time every day of 2020).

However, I have always been a girl who loved to be aesthetic. Since I was little, I kept myself entertained in ways that were perfectly organized and curated just the way I liked them. Examples include: photography sessions and iMovies where I styled my American Girl dolls’ hair just right. My section of the playroom, where I collected as many Calico Critter toys as my parents would let me buy and then arranged them into a perfect little town, each muffin in the bakery and apple in the grocery store exactly the way it had looked when I got it. A restaurant game where I got out all my play food and sorted it into neat categories: fruit and vegetables here, burgers and fries there, desserts on the shelf. I loved compiling things that were visually appealing, looked exactly the way I’d pictured in my mind.

And I still do. Which is why I spent about three and a half years limiting my clothing and accessory choices in the name of building my own aesthetic (I already am getting annoyed by this word and I just started writing this).

My freshman year of high school started in 2021, the first fully in-person semester for my district. Fresh out of isolation and having downloaded Instagram (my first real social media account) only a few weeks before school started, my outfit choices were questionable. I wanted to have a style but didn’t really, pretty much just cycling through basics I found at Target, Old Navy, and Hollister. The summer before my sophomore year was when I decided I needed a rebrand. And in August, it came to me. The downtown girl aesthetic.

For those unfamiliar, being a “downtown girl” is to look like you just stepped off the set of Gilmore Girls (fun and ironic fact: as I’m writing this, I have never seen a single episode of the show). It is chunky sweaters, flared jeans, graphic band tees, Doc Martens, and Converse. It is a playlist made up of The Smiths, Mazzy Star, and a sprinkle of Taylor Swift during COVID when she was still a little bit niche. Record stores on rainy days with hearts drawn on the windows. Listening to vinyls by candlelight. Paper cups of coffee with a kiss mark of red lipstick on the rim. You get the idea (if you don’t, I recommend Pinterest).

Initially, I might have been drawn to this concept because it was popular: fall 2022 was the season of the downtown girl, as I am constantly being reminded by everyone’s recent “Mary on a Cross” TikToks. But it stuck with me beyond that because it almost came with an instruction booklet of everything you needed to do to be her, the girl who studies in Hogwarts-style libraries with the cutest knit cardigan and her latte next to her notebook. On most social media platforms, you could look up downtown girl outfits, shoes, accessories, movies, recipes and get hundreds of options. The idea of everything about my personality fitting into a beautiful, predictable box neatly tied with a bow was amazing to me. If I was perfect and put together on the outside, maybe my awkward would turn into cool.

Not only was being a downtown girl organized in the best way, it also felt so me. I didn’t want to take on an aesthetic that was the opposite of my personality: I was already the girl who lived in Converse and graphic tees, loved fall and rainy nights and walks through the crisp leaves, would probably end up staying at the library past closing time if I got lost enough in a book. I felt deeply connected to music, wasn’t exactly alternative but wasn’t exactly basic. Also, I’ve always thought there was a very bisexual girl vibe about the whole style and I identified as bi at the time so maybe that played into my interest. But overall, it felt achievable and I was determined to achieve it, become a girl from my Pinterest boards.

And for the next three years plus a few months, that was what I set out to do. I removed all the vibrant colors from my wardrobe, my closet only containing muted reds, greens, blues, and neutrals. I kept this rule for every swimsuit I wore to the beach, every dress I wore to homecoming and prom. The bubblegum pop vanished from my playlists, which were now alternative and indie songs I’d learned from videos about “downtown girl music”. I owned SO many sweaters and a big gold heart pendant necklace that I wore with all of them. Even my pencil case and wallet were white with red hearts to fit the theme. And I enjoyed it for a very long time.

I’d gotten what I wanted. My friends would send me TikToks with collages of the pictures I’d once idolized on Pinterest and say they thought of me. When other elements of my life were out of control, it was okay because I was cozy in my little downtown box I’d made for myself. But somewhere between the ages of 15 and 19, I grew up and the comfort slowly became claustrophobia.

The first time I remember feeling unsure about it was trying on clothes at Old Navy, the day after I graduated high school. My mom insisted on me trying on a few colorful pieces, a vibrant red-orange dress and a teal halter top. I loved them both and how they looked on me, but I didn’t buy them. They didn’t fit with everything else I had, the faded hues in my closet at home. But I did take a picture of the top and post it to my private story, with the caption “in another life I actually wear color.”

I got home that day from shopping and looked at my closet. Still the perfectly organized color scheme, not disrupted by anything too bright. Just how I liked it. There was one shirt slightly out of place. White with pink flowers. Pink wasn’t a color I wore, but I decided it was my one and only exception. After all, it was one of my favorites.

Speaking of pink, the magenta desk chair in my room was long overdue for a replacement. It was comfortable and undamaged, but it just didn’t fit. I typed “white desk chair” into the IKEA search bar and added it to the shopping cart, which my parents later vetoed since they saw no reason to unnecessarily add to the expenses of moving me into college in a few months. The hot pink stuck out in my room, which annoyed me, but the color itself was nice. Two exceptions, I guess. I’d replace it one day.

Over the course of my first semester of college, more exceptions crept in. My room with its baby pink blanket and buttercup floral sheets (pastels were acceptable, I decided). A few going out tops in shades of red and green that were a little brighter. A shirt in a seamless, soft material I loved but would’ve previously deemed too basic. But overall, I still stuck to the instruction manual.

Winter break had arrived, and I immediately went off to Florida with my family to visit relatives. We spent a day at Disney Springs and I found myself browsing Free People, Anthropologie, Lululemon. Loving the vibrant pieces. On the long drive back, I watched color analysis videos in between online shopping, finding out that I was meant for bold shades rather than muted ones. When we returned and I had time to sit in my childhood bedroom after months of being in a new city, I realized I really wasn’t the girl I was at 15 anymore. So why did she control the way I presented myself?

It turned out that over the years, my obsession with everything being perfect and organized and matching that I’d carried with me since I was little had become entangled with my self-worth. I’d observed that as I got better at putting together outfits, doing my makeup, and choosing the lineup of pictures for my Instagram posts, people actually seemed to want to be around me more. I collected more friends, likes, smiles in the hallway. Copying my downtown girl Pinterest boards really did turn my awkward into cool, the way I’d hoped. So I clung onto them for dear life as long as I could, in hopes that I’d never lose that upward trajectory of admiration.

Even one thing that didn’t fit my aesthetic would be so glaringly out of place, I told myself, and then it would emphasize my own inability to fit in (not that I wanted to be exactly like everyone else, just viewed as normal instead of awkward). But when I actually took a second to think about the reasoning, it seemed ridiculous—was I just going to wear the same clothes for the rest of my life? I got so attached to the idea of being cohesive and cute that I forgot it wasn’t required of me. I’d been secretly wanting to escape the set of Gilmore Girls for the last half a year, and it was time to stop holding myself back.

For me, the most difficult step was learning that it was okay for not everything I owned to go together. That sentence looks so stupid written out—but I needed to repeat it internally because I’d spiraled into holding myself to such an unrealistic standard. The pictures we see on Pinterest are just that, snapshots of a single moment in time. Maybe that flawlessly accessorized look is the only one like that in their entire wardrobe. And the people who do somehow have an entirely perfect wardrobe are extremely few and far between, not the average middle-class suburban student.

I love my friends because they are kind and funny and caring, not because they look like they stepped out of a magazine catalog. Literally no one looks like that in real life. We just let social media and our limited perceptions of the people we don’t really know make us think they do. Yes, it’s true that people may admire your good style or strike up a conversation with you because they love the Hollister dress you have on—but real friends keep you around and truly value you for your authenticity, and all the qualities that aren’t visible from the outside.

With all this in mind, I officially broke out of the box and spent some of my Christmas money on a dress with yellow flowers and green leaves. Then a cobalt top, and a bright red matching set. I loved all of them. I went on Depop to list some of the pieces I didn’t really like from my downtown girl era, but kept my favorites and did my best to ignore the voices telling me they no longer fit. Instead of meticulously picking songs to “match the vibe” for my walk to class, I listened to whatever I was in the mood for. Sometimes this was positions by Ariana Grande or the Hamilton soundtrack on shuffle (yes, it’s out of order but how else are you supposed to hear anything from act 2). And I made a discovery: after a few months of music and clothes and accessories that didn’t all perfectly match with each other, I was happier.

There’s a quote about life beginning outside your comfort zone. I’ll be the first to admit that I absolutely love my comfort zone, but little by little, as I approach my twenties, I’m trying to push myself out of it. Lately, that means replacing my black backpack with a neon floral one and keeping the magenta desk chair because the colors bring me joy—no matter how basic the alternative eighth-graders of the world may think it is.

Oh, and pink is my new favorite color.

Some final notes:

1. This is my longest piece yet idk how this happened ???

2. After I wrote this, I started Gilmore Girls and I love it so far

3. Has anyone else been into color analysis? Finding out my colors professionally is not in my budget right now (on my bucket list one day) but I think I’m a deep winter!

For about two years, or since I was a few months away from turning eighteen, I have had a public account on Instagram. At a similar time, I decided that I would not make my account private until I had kids, because I’m personally team don’t-show-your-children’s-faces-online. This decision to maintain my public account until then has always stayed the same. In other words, I’ve never seriously considered making my profile private again, much less deleting the whole thing. I have fun designing my grid and organizing my photos like it’s an art form, secretly hoping others notice as well.

And I’m sure, despite the countless articles I’ve seen about people’s experiences getting off TikTok or Instagram or their phones entirely, there are many people who feel the same as me.

Before I get any farther, I want to establish the fact that this is not in any way meant to judge anyone for deleting social media, or claim that these people think they are better than me. It’s more of a way to unpack my own lack of self-control. In some ways, I’d definitely be better off without it.

In my diary a few years ago, recognizing my procrastination that had taken over my life, I wrote something along the lines of “Other people have phones and they’re not like this. It’s just me.” I wish I could go back in time and tell myself that “not like this” was actually ADHD, and I should get medicated sooner so I could get some sleep instead of staying up all night doing my homework. But all that goes to say that if anyone needs a phone break, it’s probably me. I remind myself that comparison is the thief of joy, but fall victim to it all the same when I see everyone’s seemingly perfect pictures and lives.

Maybe I actually would be able to somewhat quit social media, on certain conditions. I’d delete Instagram if I got to reinstall it every time I wanted to post something. I’d delete TikTok if I got to keep all my drafts. I’d delete Snapchat…actually, I wouldn’t because how else would I update my friends on my life through my private story like it’s the daily paper?

Never mind. The act of writing this has solidly made me realize I could not cut out social media, because I deeply yearn to be in the loop. As someone who is chronically online, I enjoy being in on the jokes and references (there is a list in my notes app of my favorites). No, I don’t know every single story time listed in a video about the five best multi-part TikTok series, but being aware of some of them (the girl who fell in love with her psychiatrist, anyone?) makes me feel like I’m part of a community. I find myself wondering how Tamara is doing with her jar of buttons for each day of the year, or anticipating the dancing cow videos before the algorithm sends them to me on the first of the month.

That said, I have been working on limiting my screen time, or at least using it more productively instead of fully eliminating it. I’m a big believer of everything in moderation. I (mostly) doomscroll on Substack instead of TikTok now, try not to spend more than an hour on my phone before bed, replace short-form videos with shows or movies I haven’t seen yet.

I used to roll my eyes at the posts of people who had come back online to tell us everything they hated about it, and laugh at the ones making fun of these people. I may continue to laugh at a few. But at the same time, I can recognize that it’s in our nature (especially those of us who are on this app, writing to an audience) to want to share our successes and discoveries that have changed us for the better, so others can benefit as well.

Truthfully, I really can’t judge them at all because I posted a note a few days ago, telling everyone (read: myself and one other liker) that staying off TikTok and Instagram in the hour before I put down my phone for the night has actually helped me to sleep better. So if you see that, try not to roll your eyes too hard.

& if you made it this far comment your fav chronically online reference :) I have many but the video of Cameron Diaz talking about how she ate lumpia and adobo every single day has a special place in my heart

If I had to pinpoint a time where I experienced the most anxiety I’ve ever had in my life, I would confidently choose my junior year of high school.

My friend groups and social status shifted as the year began—I’d met a lot of new people who liked me, and with that came the fear of disappointing them. I realized that I actually didn’t like men and was in fact a lesbian in October, and didn’t tell anyone for the next two months just to make sure my feelings didn’t change.

This brought in a new aspect of social anxiety: I could no longer relate to the conversations about celebrity crushes and which guy in Outer Banks was the hottest. Even though I wasn’t ashamed of my identity, I was worried people would judge me as a gay girl before anything else. Some of my friends didn’t even know I liked girls in the first place. Already I felt like I was the type of person whose weirdness reveals itself the more you get to know them, so I was worried it was only a matter of time before people decided they didn’t like me anymore and disappeared from my life.

At the end of November, as the semi-closeted and incredibly anxious lesbian I was, I listened to the record by boygenius. This was also my introduction to Phoebe Bridgers, beyond the songs of hers I’d heard on TikTok. I very quickly learned what all the hype over the past year had been about.

Needless to say, I spent 90% of the next three months listening to every boygenius song and each member’s discography on repeat, joining the many other anxious lesbians in the world at the time. This was how I learned all the lyrics to “Kyoto” by Phoebe Bridgers before I learned how to drive.

Spring came around, more upbeat music worked its way into my rotation, and I hesitantly got behind the wheel for the first time at 17 years old (if I wanted to, I could’ve over a year before this, but my social anxiety extended to being on the road). Unfortunately, the first few practice sessions did not appear to be defeating any stereotypes about Asian women anytime soon. Driving around my middle school parking lot, I was somehow veering onto the wrong side of the road every time I tried to turn at approximately 3 miles per hour. My parking ability (or lack thereof) was a whole different story (and still is).

After continuous loops of the parking lot and my quiet neighborhood road, it was finally time to face my fear: driving onto a slightly busier, not-just-my-neighborhood road. I remember physically shaking as I made the right turn, checking over my left shoulder to make sure my driving journey wouldn’t be ended before it even began. Then, full of adrenaline, I pressed on the gas pedal and reached 30 mph for the first time. And it was so much better than I expected.

My knee was still bouncing up and down with anxiety and my dad was still in the car next to me, telling me where to go next. But I didn’t immediately run off the road or crash into a car in the other lane, the way my worst fears told me I would. I felt relieved and accomplished and grown up, and free, like I was flying. It was the first time I thought to myself, I can actually drive.

Summer and many more lessons came and went. I miraculously passed my driving test first try, and got ice cream the next day while listening to Short N’ Sweet to celebrate. I was so happy to be able to start my senior year taking my car to school like everyone else. As the trees turned orange and frost bloomed on the windshield when my brother and I left our house in the morning, my fall playlist re-entered the rotation. Phoebe Bridgers was, of course, included. (Seriously, if you don’t spend October with Stranger in the Alps on repeat, what are you doing?)

And when “Kyoto” came on one day and Phoebe sang the words “Remember getting the truck fixed, when you let us drive it, 25 felt like flying,” I was right back on the slightly busier street with my dad in the passenger seat, breathing in the summer night air through the cracked windows.

My first thought was, Phoebe was so right. As she probably always is. 25 did feel exactly like flying once. But then I realized I was nostalgic for a time that I actually hated.

Spring of junior year was when the heavy workload and my tendency to procrastinate as much as possible (read: undiagnosed ADHD) mixed together to result in constant dark circles under my eyes and collapsing into bed at 2am after finishing assignments I should’ve started long before. I was insecure and not fully out to all of my friends and horribly anxious (do you see a common theme?) and when I once forgot to submit a project on time, I apologized so many times to my group that I think they were more annoyed at me for that than the actual project submission part.

Still, in all my exhaustion and feeling like the days would never end, there were beautiful moments—most of which I look back on fondly because of the music I associate them with. Watching Anyone but You in my good friend’s basement and singing along to “Unwritten” as it played. Screaming the bridge of “Cruel Summer” at my junior prom with a girl I no longer talk to. And now, “Kyoto” to accompany my driving milestone, to highlight a glimmer of joy in a time that didn’t have as much.

I think there’s just something about being in your senior year of high school that shows you how fast time really passes, makes every song feel like it was written with specifically you in mind. The same year, a few weeks after turning eighteen, I listened to “Nothing New” by Taylor Swift for the hundredth time, but it was the first time I really understood “It’s like I can feel time moving” in my bones. A few months later, Lizzy McAlpine released “Spring into Summer” as I reached my final quarter of high school. Okay, that one I am convinced was written with specifically me in mind.

The more I get older, the more I feel moved by music and the nostalgia that it creates. The way it elevates an emotional moment like nothing else can. I’ve had many more experiences with it since high school ended. My favorite by far was this past October: my sister and I went to see Laufey on her 13th birthday. As the concert came close to its end and thousands of people joined in with “Letter To My 13 Year Old Self,” the only voices I heard were ours, her singing along and me singing to her. Like my first real drive in the car, I remember physically shaking—this time, trying not to cry.

I may never be able to articulate the exact emotions I felt in that moment, just that my heart felt like it was overflowing. If I had to choose one word to describe it, though, it would simply be “beautiful.”

“when i grow up, i want to be successful. do something that is recognized by a lot of people, but not for the fame or the money. i want to do it so that the kids that kind of knew me and thought i was weird or too quiet will look at that news article and say, ‘wow, that girl was on my team in __ grade. maybe i should’ve gotten to know her better.’”

         - Me, 12 years old, from my seventh-grade diary, November 5, 2019

Evidently, some things never change (actually, now I’d say that if I had to be recognized by a lot of people, I’d definitely want the money first). Close to seven years later, I’m grown up in a sense but still find myself biting back the desire to prove everyone wrong, be the cool girl no one thought I was.

I daydream sometimes about the first day I’m beautiful to everyone. A few months from now, I walk through my hometown Target on a holiday break; run into someone I know, flash a polite smile, and they almost don’t realize it’s me. I look fit and put-together in the most perfect, casual way that you can be wandering down a Target aisle. They smile back, think wow, she looks so different, maybe even bring me up to their high school friend group the next time they meet.

This “first day” daydream takes many forms. Along with the Target version, there’s one where I upload the perfect beach pictures and the people who never notice my posts come out of the woodwork to like this one. Or the gym version where someone admires my newly impressive physique. Central to all of these scenarios is the element of humility: I’m not showing off my appearance in any way, just casually a person who exists and people think is beautiful. The thing about beauty is that it is most valued when it looks effortless, when you try hard enough to look like you didn’t try to get it (I could probably write another essay based on just this sentence alone). I no longer wish for the fame or the news article, unless it’s something I happen to accidentally stumble into.

I feel very stupid having written all of these words.

There is no reason for me to have to interact with the people I presented a slideshow with in history class, or walked around the track with in gym. These people who I don’t keep in contact with have no role or importance in my life except to skip past my stories on social media.

Why do I care?

The main reason, selfish as it sounds, is to turn the tables on everyone. Show that my current life isn’t following the same trajectory as my mediocre high school experience.

I know the sentiment comes off as vain, attention-seeking, but I feel justified in a sense. I was always awkward and kind of quiet—the girl who people forgot was in their classes, who never received a second of romantic attention. The girl who stared at the popular girls’ Instagram pictures and wished someone would envy me the way I envied them. I don’t want people to feel bad about themselves because of me, just admiration mixed with the fleeting thought of I want to be her, for a minute. Isn’t it my turn to be effortlessly pretty and perfect, the subject of jealousy just one time?

But, reading this back, I’m realizing I answered the question of why do I want to be cool, and not why do I actually care what people think.

I haven’t figured it all out myself, but my best guess is that it stems from the people-pleasing personality I have had as long as I can remember. I have always cared what everyone thinks; I was the girl who sobbed uncontrollably and had to leave class to calm down the one time she had to move her clip down in kindergarten. (It was actually two times; I’m proving my own point by wanting to withhold the second, in case you decided once was fine but twice was an unforgivable sin. I did sob uncontrollably both times, though). I fear the idea of anyone seeing me and thinking my life is worse than it was before. I know I’m doing better, but it would still send me into a spiral for reasons I’m not quite sure of yet.

I’ve also struggled since middle school with the idea of my self-worth being tied to my appearance. Having the perfect body is something I’ve visualized since then but never achieved, and part of me thinks that finally having it and my peers noticing will fix all my problems, even though I know deep down it won’t.

Finally, the people I went to high school with but don’t speak to are still, in the most minuscule sense, a part of my life. I don’t necessarily live in a small town, but at times it really feels that way. As long as they orbit me, even in the distant sense of them taking my order at the local Starbucks or viewing my Instagram story, being a friend of a friend of a friend, I still look at them as people I should be trying to impress.

Admittedly, I don’t know how to not care yet. Up until I got to college, I didn’t have any friends who weren’t in my school district. All of the years I went to school with these people, I cared what they thought, and in the year since I graduated, I find that I still do a little. But I’m going to try to care just a little less.

I want to go forward with a neutrality mindset: it’s fine to care what people think sometimes, but I don’t need to become fixated on their hypothetical opinions. Instead, I’ll focus on the real friends in my hometown and at college, and learn to be okay with existing in public imperfectly. Letting people perceive me while I’m dressed in the oversized tee I’ve worn a thousand times and sweat shorts instead of a matching Brandy set. Most importantly: knowing that the next classmate I’ll inevitably run into at Target probably doesn’t give a fuck about me.

Thank you for reading my first piece I’m so grateful 🥲