A certain type of girl

Sorry for the long blurb

My first apartment in the city was a three-bedroom in a pink brownstone between Bed-Stuy and Bushwick. I lived with two women ten years older than me, paying $875 for a room with a closet and a south-facing window. Getting to Williamsburg or Lower Manhattan, where I worked and hung out, was somewhat challenging. Still, the 17-minute walk to the train made it worth it, passing by the home of a renowned book editor.

We weren't in love or friends or somewhere in between. Truth be told, I never saw his face. My heart fluttered during my commute because of the occasional sight of his tuxedo cat sleeping on a pile of uncorrected proofs near his stoop, with a sign reading "TAKE AS MANY AS YOU WANT" taped to his fence.

I'd always snap and post a photo of this charming scene, usually with three or four books in hand. The truth is, I didn't really read; to this day, the 20 proofs I accumulated during my six months in the neighborhood remain untouched.

Yet, my followers loved it, treating it like I'd stumbled into a goldmine. I knew they'd react that way when I posted the first commemorative tweet, complete with a heart emoji expressing my excitement. So, I kept doing it for the praise.

I don't look back on this with rosy cheeks and a half-smile. In fact, it pains me to confess.

At one point, my growth and presence online seemed pivotal to my success, so I posted constantly as though someone, somewhere, was paying me to do so.

I once worked with an art director whose beauty seemed almost AI-generated. Every detail about her was flawless, from her immaculate face and impeccable style to the effortless grace with which she carried herself. Whenever she appeared on a video call, the pristine white of her apartment would dazzle me. Her life seemed meticulously structured, intimidating, and admirable. Predictably, her Instagram feed mirrored this precision, with a curated palette of cool-toned neutrals accented by hints of military green.

A close-up of the delicate bow on her pointelle underwear.

Her silhouette, naked against a plush velvet hotel curtain.

A crystal-clear, textured glass holding iced coffee on a mid-century modern bedside table.

Rumors around the team circulated that she used her online presence as a business card—a strategic move given her profession. Yet, I found this aspect of her life complex and enigmatic. Was she enjoying this carefully crafted persona? I couldn't say for sure.

Scrolling through my feed, I often wondered if my aesthetic choices would meet her approval. "Well, I'm not an art director," I'd remind myself while archiving a photo of a worn mattress adorned with a sentimental message in royal blue.

I attempted to emulate her lifestyle in many ways, believing it would attract a larger audience. Instead, it felt like my efforts were exhausting my mind. Each time I arranged a row of photos in perfect color coordination, with selfies scattered among objects and landscapes, it brought a fleeting smile—as if I had spent months searching for a missing piece to an already completed puzzle.

I pondered whether my former colleague derived joy from her social media presence. Did she maintain a secret account, or did she find satisfaction in regularly archiving or deleting posts, as I often observed? Perhaps she simply possessed an innate talent—a knack for embodying the essence of modern taste. But what drove her to maintain this perpetual cycle of posting and posing if she wasn't monetizing her posts?

Not long ago, my boyfriend joked that curated Instagram feeds are now the hallmark of a millennial woman. I chuckled in ironic agreement, fully aware that any deviation from my somewhat color-coordinated grid would trigger such discomfort that my eye might twitch uncontrollably (thank you, former coworker [and a big portion of the world, I guess?]).

A recent report from Morning Consult revealed that 57% of Gen Zers would eagerly embrace the opportunity to become influencers. This statistic didn't surprise me, as I've often observed small accounts mimicking their idols—over-sharing, stealing jokes, and tagging brands in hopes of emulating success.

When a family member took a keen interest in my Instagram stories featuring gifted facial serums and D2C shroom chocolates, I raised an eyebrow. Her enthusiasm for what I thought to be tedious online tasks puzzled me—not because of the free products, but because I wasn't profiting from it. In fact, I've been removed from several gifting lists because I couldn't bring myself to do insincere TikTok-style product reviews.

Despite my warnings about potential discomfort and the absence of payment, she enthusiastically entered the world of influencer-style posts. And to my surprise, she loves every minute of it. If anything, she craves even more. I'm not sure how to feel about it.

I received a Reddit link from an anonymous Instagram account a few years ago. Upon opening it, I discovered an 'adult' community where people submit photos for the male admin to display on an iPad while recording himself inappropriately. The newest submission was a photo of me, one I had posted on Twitter the day before. I closed the video immediately and tried to go about my day, distracting myself with work chatter to block out my confusion and discomfort.

I asked myself, "Is this a universal experience for women online, or was I simply unlucky?"

The subreddit made me want to erase my entire online presence. I felt a mix of guilt and foolishness for having made myself a target by regularly posting images of my face and body for anyone to download.

Still, I couldn't picture myself giving up the superficial praise of being a certain type of girl, one who was known for documented exclamations such as "walking around, holding back tears while listening to Lana Del Rey," often attached to a well-lit selfie or a photo of a newborn animal. And I found that I was good at this type of thing. If anything, it felt as if tons of people enjoyed the presence of characters like myself on their feeds.

I often lied to myself, claiming I was building an audience to become a modern poetess or a personality with a predominantly female following, but I had no clear goal. I was an aspiring copywriter making an illegal salary at my online peak. Plus, I wasn't making any real effort to pursue something where I would benefit from already having an audience.

Experiencing poor mental health from my internet use is a strange yet ordinary reality. Mostly because my case is not one of comparing my body or face. However, it's not exactly bullying. I drive myself crazy trying to figure out whether or not I did anything to welcome unpleasant comments, unwanted treatment. I've cried about it all. I feel stupid for doing so.

Recently, I deactivated my social media to clear my mind of the existential "what is this all for?" feeling.

During my break, I knew an exciting project I worked on was going live. While I looked forward to sharing it, I felt anxious about returning. I even questioned my need to broadcast my accomplishments instead of sharing them privately with loved ones.

This led me to wonder why everything needs to be documented and why I seek validation from strangers and acquaintances. I guess it's just a new way to connect, and that I'm not really doing anything worthy of praise by silently protesting these norms–it's truly not that deep. A few months from now, I may find this blurb cringe-worthy. Or I may be gone altogether. I don't really know.

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Thanks for supporting my writing. Can't say if it's any good, but your reading means a lot. And thanks for sticking with me through it all. I know I've been airing out my love-hate thing with the internet for a bit now.

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