I got really into Googling, “How did X start their career?” in June. At first, it was because like every summer I fell into a routine where I got up early to make iced coffee and then returned to bed to sip slowly until I almost shit myself from the caffeine or the milk or both. That was the only way I would get out of bed again. It felt aristocratic to spend my mornings like this, and I was content for a time exchanging smoking by the window for Zyn under the covers. By mid-June, though, I was twitching to feel a greater sense of momentum.
After enough hours of lethargy, I thought researching my celebrity idols would be a good step toward becoming one myself. I refined my searches to women under 35 because anyone older had a crone-like quality I found unappealing in the morning. My passion for this area of study was as intriguing to me as the outcome of my learning would inevitably be. Not only did I have no plan to actually follow through as my proactivity in the job market was as lame as my activity in general, but in all honesty, fame didn’t even appeal to me anymore after a brief stint of niche internet stardom when I was 13 and had a thriving online sticker business.
The sticker market was much less saturated than I initially believed, and I quickly racked up tens of thousands of followers and many DMs of garish or disproportionate fan art. In spite of or maybe because of this, I felt strangely endeared to my fans for a time. I even made a YouTube channel wherein my vlogs doubled as immensely effective marketing for my stickers.
Things only took a turn when 4 people in a row placed orders to Beachwood, Ohio. I became convinced that I was being gang stalked, which wouldn’t really have worried me except that I realized any competent group of stalkers would figure out I was not the 18-year-old I had been pretending to be in order to turn on AdSense and monetize my YouTube channel. I was going through a phase at the time where I used Reddit like a pseudo-twitter platform, so r/gangstalking was the first place I turned. It not only perpetuated and strengthened my convictions but even provided a community I truly felt enmeshed in and supported by.
When a month and a half later, my fans posted on their stories wishing me a happy 19th birthday, I deleted all social media platforms (except Reddit) and hid my diary that documented every instance of stalking I had been experiencing, from almost being hit by a bike to continuous ads for ketamine therapy. I confirmed my final AdSense payout the summer before my sophomore year.
In part because of my brush with young celebrity, I first focused only on searching for how small writers started off. Mostly, I learned that Substack could be both lucrative and the best jumping off point. When I Googled where these same women went to college, I was disgusted to find out that Bennington and Bard were almost ubiquitously their alma maters.
By mid-July, I had my first scheduled outing in weeks: lunch with my friend and her email acquaintance. She introduced him as “someone I’m curious to see how you’ll like interact with, I guess” and texted me “make sure u don’t pronounce the J like a J in his name because that isn’t the same yk.” We congregated in front of Grand Army Plaza in Flatbush, and when my phone died, we fell into conversation about internet tracking and the government. While the topic brought up sore memories, I had grown quite adept at therapizing myself and resolved to politely nod but otherwise engage minimally. Even though neither me or my friend were responding much, Javier assertively began to preach about how, as a society, it was categorically wrong to be indifferent to apps and websites tracking our every move. No matter how small the actual instance, he stood very firm in his stance. He kept repeating, “the principle of it” after every few sentences. While I was briefly distracted by a croissant flake lingering on his upper lip, I was mostly feeling my mood slip and had a desire to disagree with him for some contrarian thrill.
“I don’t know if I care that Woodoku has better-tailored ads for me. I’m kind of glad,” I insisted. I wasn’t looking him in the eye but rather picking at my cuticles. I could feel my friend narrowing her eyes at me, but I just brought my pointer finger to my lips to lick off the blood that started to pool.
“Don’t you feel duped. Like a chump? Yeah, that ad is exactly what you want, but at what cost? It’s like if we accept this status quo we are just cogs in the system, letting them make us do whatever they want us to do.” He was gesturing with his hands now. Emphasizing each word, like in some acting exercise. Flailing more than before. His eyes were darting between my friend and I, but I sensed that my friend was happy just observing voyeuristically and wouldn’t step in. I just shrugged. My good mood that morning was completely gone by now, and I needed another Zyn or something.
He waited a moment, presumably expecting a larger response, but seemed to slowly accept my silence as answer enough. He licked his lip but missed the croissant flake, pointing his chin up and concluding, “You should feel wronged” before excusing himself with some obvious lie that he had an appointment to be at. He got a few feet away before I waved, since I was digging in my bag for a loose cigarette. I stopped letting myself buy full packs, and I left my Zyn at home. When I looked up again and opened my mouth to similarly excuse myself, my friend was already nodding her assent.
“Godspeed,” she commanded while saluting with two purple-nailed fingers. That reminded me why we were friends and I had the sense that if I was in higher spirits I would have given her a hug or maybe even invited her to my apartment to drink or sleep.
It was only when I was back home laying on the couch, that I really mulled over Javier’s points. I came to the realization that maybe he was right, but only so far as it meant that my actions were somewhat predetermined by their influence. Like some kind of layabout pawn. This upset me, and with my phone still charging in the kitchen, I distracted myself by coming up with a new list of celebrities that probably didn’t go to Bennington to Google next: Hannah Neilman, Dasha Nekrasova, and A.G. Cook who I thought was a woman for years so I felt counted enough. I only got three names in when I heard my phone buzz back to life. I still had no plans to take notes, and the underlying paranoia I had acquainted myself with years ago was back, but I reminded myself that the act of studying was nourishing. The momentum it gave me would be healing.
Another month passed, and the only meaningful change in my life was the addition of hazelnut creamer to my iced coffees. I was happy with that. That was, until I got my first ad for Substack. Then open casting calls started popping up on my Instagram explore page. This all made me feel a middling but strangely addictive kind of exhilaration and joy. It really hit me a week later when I opened Reddit to find a post from a Canadian sketch comedy show announcing “SNAPPY YOUNG WRITERS NEEDED” with an email to submit resumes. In all my research, a frankly suspicious number of my idols started off doing something or another in Canada. I attributed this to my willfully naive and myopic view of Canada as a single town called Calgary that, much like Lego villages, are much easier to get jobs in. I felt compelled to call Javier.
“Hey,” I rasped out before turning away from my phone to clear my throat, “you remember me, right?” I waited until I heard some gross noise of acknowledgement before continuing, “I’m taking control of my life. Taking it back from them,” I tried to mimic his speech patterns the best I remembered.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I hesitated. Not since June had I felt so in control. The freshness of this new plan
felt rejuvenating. The fact that it would entail no actual shifts in daily routine at all felt intensely desirable. Explaining myself would lessen my excitement, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give that up just yet. I pushed the Zyn around my mouth as I thought.
“Are you still there? Hello?”