Blasting Childish Gambino at 11 p.m. as I write this in the comfort of my bed. I've been a little chaotic lately because I went back on social media after being offline for so long. It's literally brainrot, and my cortisol levels have skyrocketed in the past few weeks. Maybe it's also just America. When I was in Japan and Thailand, my days were much slower and grounded. It's hard to doom-scroll when you're elbow-deep in a bowl of khao soi. Something about being in a country where you can't read the street signs really forces you to be present.
Today I woke up and did a quick 20-minute yoga session to clear my head, then took a shower. I weigh 122 lbs now. I chugged a bottle of water and cranked out a 1,200-word entry on Erika Kirk's grievance tour and her questionable relationship with God. I let Claude proofread it and then sent it off to my boss. It is a humiliation ritual in a sense, you know, ghostwriting for someone famous who gets credit for these revelatory takes when it's actually my voice. But I remind myself that for the most part, they are my thoughts, and at least they're being heard even if it isn't through my own platform. In fact, I am often relieved that I don't have to bear the brunt of my work when the haters stream in. But with pieces like Gen Z's acquiescence to sober dating, I wish I could proudly stamp my name on the page. Anyway, this took less than an hour and I was off to do real work.
Like reading my Wall Street Journal. Chugged another bottle of water. Read way too many articles on the fucking oil fiasco that's sending the markets into a tizzy. The Middle East has never been my primary interest, so I skip over some of the world news and settle on counterfeit merchandise returns and how companies are leveraging AI to crack down on this. Then some typical spending-power puff piece about Gen Zs. Average news day. I'm looking forward to Oracle's earnings call tomorrow.
I exchanged emails with the new broker to request permission to install high-butane woks for my restaurant and spoke to appliance vendors about a custom hot bar installation. This is my first ventilated space, so I'm learning as I go, which is a generous way of saying I am Googling things in real time during phone calls. I feel like I have impostor syndrome because I'm literally winging it. I have such a hard time trusting people in this line of work because they're all angling to get something out of it for themselves, whether it's pushing a certain POS subscription or the highest-priced (but unnecessary) equipment for my kitchen. Everyone's got an opinion and a commission. I just have to trust my gut at the end of the day because it's my money on the line and no one else's. Until it's their skin in the game, it doesn't matter to any of them. I could light the money on fire in front of them and they'd ask if I wanted to upgrade to a nicer lighter.
Checked in on my sisters, one in Rio and the other in Rome. I wish I was 21 and 22 again, but it is their time now. And I am so jealous but also happy for them. Those years were pure and uninterrupted. I literally traveled the world with every penny I had and would give my left kidney to schlep across Europe again, sleeping in hostels and flying budget airlines. They're in that era now. These days I have a stick up my ass and turn my nose up at a four-star hotel because the thread count isn't high enough or because their spa doesn't offer lymphatic drainage massage. It's shameful, really. I've become the kind of person I would have made fun of at 21. Someone drop me off at a hostel in Lisbon with $40 and a carry-on so I can remember what it feels like to be a human being.
I read about 60 pages of The Divided Isles before my brain tapped out on all the names of the political figures. I can never read more than one and a half chapters of this book at a time because it's heavy. Not emotionally heavy. Just heavy in the way that a textbook you voluntarily purchased is heavy. That was it for the day.
Ate some crab cakes from takeout for dinner and met up with a friend to grab a drink and walk down the waterfront to catch up. So many of my DC friends became consultants, and I have no idea what they consult on. I have very little interest in finding out, so I just listen to them complain about their project and their team and respond with polite short phrases when prompted by questions about my child. Because let's be honest, no one really cares if my son learned a new phrase in German, except for his parents. I don't blame them. If someone told me their toddler said "Guten Morgen," I'd nod thoughtfully and then think about what I wanted for lunch.
I scroll on Twitter sporadically and find myself enraged by my stupid algorithm pushing doomsday dating ragebait about New York City singles. I'm in New York so often lately, catching up for lost time with my friends. Of all the cities in this world, I have the highest number of friends in New York. It would make sense for me to move there, but I just don't know. I could always open a restaurant there and make it my home base, but then the magic of popping in and out of that city would dissipate. I like to make myself scarce, and how scarce can I be if I'm always there? Mystique requires geography.
I don't sleep until like 3 in the morning most nights, and I'm fully refreshed after five hours of sleep. Anything to distract myself from thinking about the guy I saw in New York for two weekends in under a month. I refuse to slip up like this. Even if he's tall, affectionate, and picking out my sake for me at Icca. (Why is it so hot when guys order for you? I am a grown woman with opinions about fermentation and I'm still swooning over a man pointing at a menu.) He probably is expecting to sleep with me the next time he sees me, and I don't know if I'm there yet. So here I am.
Just ghosting him. Like a fucking pussy.