I turned 23 on January 12. it felt nothing like my previous birthdays: i.e., no tears. My boyfriend and I love to elope. The two months we've been together are miniscule in the shadow of the decade or so that we've known each other, so we disappear into the relationship and our weekends like a married couple. For my birthday weekend, we day-drank and winter-hiked throughout Lake Placid. All I could think of all weekend was how ugly I felt- my Irish skin cracking under the barometric bitter cold, my chin enduring another cystic breakout, and my vegetarianism-firmly-relinquished-bloat prevailing- yet I could not move myself to a place of concern. My boyfriend loves me, I am twenty three, and good things are coming.
One of those good things was Ariana Grande’s return to pop music on my very day of birth. “Yes, And” is exactly the kind of problematic anthem that I go crazy for. Ariana is someone who I semi-(not at all)-ironically herald as a sort of religious figure, in that I think she is *the* starlet of our era. To be truly the moment, your talent can only be matched by your hardships. Ariana is the perfect new age tragic figure- from tortured child actress to concert bombing, boyfriend suicide to BPD engagement, race dysmorphia to now severe anorexia, her tribulations feel cruel to lay out so clearly.
The therapist and I are both astounded by an Eating Disorder’s proclivity. It seems in every facet of my life, even prior to intentional starvation, the habitual tendencies and masochistic mindset are observable in myriad ways. She suggests that we write on the topic together, a united force of personal reconciliation and professional research. This is difficult for me- years ago I made a promise to myself to never utilize such a trite plot device in any content, not even essay-style. In the mindset of a sickened anorexic, almost any content that has to do with food becomes fuel for the fire. There is a particular sense of obsession lent to any eating disorder related media. I've seen every movie that Ciara Bravo or Lily Collins has starred in, and can identify mukbangers by their youtube handles. Now I face the anorexic’s dilemma: how do I reconcile and not replicate?
Another degeneracy fueled frustration of mine is that of the recent Sober Epidemic. Sobriety, it turns out, has little to do with not drinking and everything to do with telling everyone you're not drinking. I so miss when only my alcoholic friends quit drinking. All of a sudden, sobriety has become a status symbol. Gone are the days of politely declining a drink because it might make you psychotic, here are the days of rejecting the blasphemous, rambunctious nature of alcohol and holding your chin higher because of it. The appropriation of sober culture is blatant, and the piety afforded to the recently sober is comical. Non Indulgence is honorable only if it stems from true self reflection, which is often discarded when you adopt a sober lifestyle for the plot. It’s not that you failed dry January: it’s that you don’t want to do it in the first place. And that’s ok.
My last hateful take centers around the new Todd Haynes film. I watched May, December the second it came out, thrilled to pivot my absorption of true crime content from pornographic youtube channels to pedophilic art film. The matured, adult, Gen X, disdain for the consumption of true crime content is very difficult to conceptualize within the framework of a zoomer brain. Even more relevant than the fact that we were all exposed to the gay Buzzfeed Shane and Ryan videos, the brains that were raised on the internet are hard-wired for digital satanic ritual. The same way that boys discovered beheading videos and porn, the girls found true crime rabbit holes and anorexia forums (and also porn). The internet is a playground for young sinners, and the consequence is that now I watch videos of abducted children being discovered or teenage murderers on trial with my morning coffee. Perhaps this dichotomy is to blame for the reception of May, December, and why the film seems to only be resonating with a specific type of peer. My parents, godparents, and my well adjusted girlfriends: HATE May, December. Me and my gay friends: LOVE May, December. Very interesting grounds for analysis.
“It was so creepy!” My godfather lamented. Sophie said it made her sick to her stomach. My sickened, internet-braind compatriots, however, were enraptured by the vile subtlety. In Natalie Portman’s character we find ourselves eerily reflected- the double Actress’s obsession with monstrous “nuance” in the character of Gracie harkens to our eternal quest for digital degeneracy. Also, Charles Melton’s iconic ‘Riverdale was my Julliard” declaration makes it impossible to not revere his performance.
P.S. Note To Self
Evie, you have to think about things to be able to write about them. Let's get back to using noggin in our 23rd year.
