It’s safe to say that in 2025, I did not expect to be here—physically (some days I stare out the window waiting for “The Big One” to take us away), emotionally, politically, cosmically, spiritually, or in any other dimension. I especially didn’t think anyone still read blogs.
Honestly, I only logged in to delete this account (which I’ve apparently been auto-paying, monthly, since 2010), but then I checked the analytics… and saw some staggering numbers. Either that face-aging filter that allegedly sold our data to Russia worked really well, or TikTok did, in fact, steal my identity—but hey, it’s getting clicks, and I’ll take it.
Post-Covid, post-wildfires, post-life, post-mental health rollercoaster(S)... I’ve been living in a weird little bubble. A “leave me alone but give me constant attention” kind of headspace. I’m not actively out here thirsting for engagement—but I’m also spending way too much time overthinking the algorithm… and not above selling foot pics if the vibes are right.
I was putting all my energy into not being cheugy on Instagram—walking the delicate line of staying relevant while also actually being extremely cheugy on Instagram. Meanwhile, this blog, my Depop, and my Pinterest (which I forgot I set to auto-post) turned out to be the secret dark horses doing the Lord’s work while I was overthinking.
In the past two weeks, I’ve put in the absolute bare minimum effort on Pinterest—and almost instantly, the images below were picked up and reposted by Pinterest themselves to their three million follower base. Meanwhile, Instagram is riding me hard, and putting me away wet, while constantly slapping me with shadow bans and vague community guideline infractions.. A tale as old as time, the ones you want are the ones who treat you like shit.
And then there’s Depop—the unsung hero. Normally I just donate my clothes and pretend it’s character development, but with a little extra time on my hands (thanks to being “overqualified” for seemingly every job I’ve applied to and ghosted by the rest), I started posting. Now I’m selling off everything in my closet that hasn’t seen daylight since the era of skinny jeans with 5% spandex. Who knew? Apparently, I am the economy.
This whole experience has sparked some 3 a.m. conversations with my inner saboteur—the one who keeps me awake trying to predict 10 steps ahead instead of just doing literally anything. I have to remind him: stop thinking, America literally voted for a felon, nobody is using their brain, so quit thinking and start doing.
This isn’t a success story, by any means. If anything, it’s a cautionary tale: don’t follow your gut. Actively go against your instincts. Do whatever the hell you want. Something might stick. Or it won’t. At the end of the day you can bring Febreeze into a porta-potty, but it’s still going to smell like shit.
P.S. Sophie update, she is still sassy as ever. Cute as ever. Her current likes are: the mailman, humping my arm when it’s in an “L” shape position holding my phone while on FaceTime (awkward) and Lambchops. Dislikes: Huskies, Frenchies, and humans who don’t pet her after making eye contact.
