Well-groomed people gather in the trendy spots of the city on a sunny Friday night. They have the right look, the right hairdo, the right sunglasses. They look exactly like they’re supposed to look, cool and sexy, sleek and chill, they look comfortable in their skin as the rightful princes and princesses of this little society. They bought their way into beeing who they are, more likely into being what they are: they represent some combination of attitude and identity for which they carefully chose the exact right accessories.
They are playing the roles of their life, literally: acting as this stereotyped persona is what they have been working for, this is the achievement of all their hard work, they succeeded in being a part of it. It’s crucial to have as many witnesses as possible, hence the need to be noticed, the well-trained selfie fake spontaneity, the slightly louder laughters, the calculated marketing of a witty comment, the subtly casual brand shown just the right way to entice the proper customers. The business of human flesh at its finest, it seems; the art of selling live images of shiny humans.
The apparently light-hearted displays feel heavy to me. Their vanity feels creepy, unhealthy. They are actually mostly sincere and nice, I know. My disgust is just the result of my own bad feelings: envy, frustration, regret; I know. Love and hate, for all the women that I never had… I know. Being aware that I’m making up my own sad and mean little story like a revenge against the big bad unfair world makes me hate myself so much. Envy is ugly. Sometimes it feels like there’s nothing worth saving, the stupidity of humankind, especially my own, is unbearable. Even nihilism isn’t enough.