“Do you have guest list?”

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“Do you have guest list?”

Home » Archives for January 2025

It was 2019 and my first year as a fashion marketing student. I had waited 40 minutes in front of Le Rouge with my friends in the cold. A club in the red-light district of Pigalle. They eventually all gave up and went home. I still don’t know why I stayed. The crowd around the entrance was huge and growing, with people shoving each other and waving their hands to get the attention of someone they barely knew, who was already inside, pleading for help to get in. Girls stood at the front, their almost naked bodies pressed against the cold metal bars that separated them from the rigid, stern bouncers, who didn’t even look at them when they tried to speak. It all made me uncomfortable. I hated looking at the anxious eyes, so eager, ready to leave anyone behind just to get in. I didn’t like how it felt like their lives depended on these nights. Yet, they were all so well-dressed, in elaborate outfits. Something I had always deeply appreciated about the youth in Paris. They looked beautiful and desperate, like those Renaissance paintings of women staring into the divine light.  

But what did I expect? It was the Casablanca party, after all, the coolest brand at the time. And not just that, every fashion girl could attest that they also had the most beautiful casting. Gorgeous boys draped in silky fabrics with a tasteful touch of femininity that made them look like wealthy angel boys on a summer vacation. As a newcomer in Paris, experiencing sexual freedom for the first time, I had already had flings with at least four of them, (unintentionally, I promise). I even ended up dating one and quickly learned they were all just beautiful stoners and drug addicts with a weird fixation on new-age spirituality. They loooved that I came from a place like Bali. It was as if I were a deity to them, just because I was born on the Island of Gods. But that didn’t mean I was treated like one all the time, I was still just one of the many girls they seduced and used. They eagerly spoke to me about the meaning of life, sharing thoughts I’d had since I was eleven and then proceed to give me the most mediocre sex of my life. I’ve noticed that male models despite having one of the most superficial jobs are often the ones searching for deeper truths. Maybe it’s because they have more time to look for answers.   

I wasn’t feeling good about myself. Then again, I rarely do at fashion events. Surrounded by influencers dressed in designer, flawlessly glammed by professionals, not a hair out of place, I couldn’t help but compare. They looked so polished, almost plastic, like if I ran a finger across their skin, it would squeak. As if they weren’t real at all—just computer-generated, 3D-printed straight from some high-tech machine. 

And why is everyone so fucking skinny?  

Suddenly, the hairstyle I had worked so hard on felt off, making my forehead look even bigger. No setting spray was strong enough. My eyeliner had already started melting. My outfit? Mediocre at best. Meanwhile, they stepped out of their sleek black vans, parting the crowd like Moses, and vanished in seconds behind the doors.

What was waiting on the other side?

I waited for London Man—a friend and one of those people who effortlessly got in anywhere, no matter where or what the event was. A true socialite who always looked put together in intricate layers, Rick Owens shoes, and a distinct scent that filled my nostrils to the brim when he embraced me. He has soft voice that constantly made me have to ask him to speak up. A posh accent with an elevated vocabulary, sprinkled with just the right amount of London slang, making it a pleasant balance. And, of course, very successful with women—I, too, had once been a victim of his charm. I usually do not keep past lovers around but we really get along, so we’ve remained good friends. 

My anxiety was eating me alive. He was taking what felt like hours to meet me. I was used to feeling uneasy in big crowds, especially at fashion events, but this time felt different. I was physically shaking, like my body knew this wasn’t for me. I stepped back from the crowd and waited impatiently. The “me” now would have left, but I guess, at the time, this was something I needed to do—to experience.  

My heart skipped a beat when I spotted my crush, the one who would eventually become my first-ever boyfriend. But of course, I didn’t know that yet. He had just returned from four months in Tokyo, where he had been working as a model. We had started seeing each other a month or so before he found out he had to leave. I had taken a liking to him maybe a little faster than usual. We were sitting by the canal in the 19th arrondissement on a very sunny afternoon, after picking me up from class when he broke the news. I faked a smile and told him I was happy for him.

We had kept in contact until he ghosted me for a while, which hurt my feelings. He had left me in the dark after I had opened up to him. I was freshly 19 and far more sensitive back then, so it felt like my world was crumbling. But, of course, he came back—like they all do—and apologised for his lack of communication. Me, being young and naive, took him back. We got together almost a year later when he finally wanted to commit. We proceeded to start a relationship filled with grudges, resentment, and deep passion.

London Man finally arrived, accompanied by a posse of beautiful women. He took me by the hand—he, too, held the same power as the influencers and effortlessly made his way through the crowd. He spoke to the bouncers briefly, and as planned, they let us in. The club was soaked in a deep, blood-red hue. The floors shook from the heavy bass of trap music blaring from massive speakers, as if thousands of lost souls trapped underground were desperately trying to claw their way to the surface. Sweaty bodies bumped and ground against each other in every direction. A true depiction of Hell.

London Man ran off to greet everyone he knew, which was half the club. While I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself. I saw a few familiar faces and tried to avoid them at all costs — people I recognised from Instagram, where we follow each other but somehow never acknowledge each other in real life. Yet, we know exactly where the other vacationed that summer from our stories. Or the boys who’ve been talking to a wall in my DMs for months, endlessly sliding up to my stories, only to avoid eye contact the moment we’re in the same room. My anxiety was getting worse, especially in the heat, and small talk with people I barely knew was the last thing I wanted to engage in. Although, for once, everyone looked like they were having a good time. Except for a few pouty girls sitting on the couch, scrolling through their phones. Maybe it was because, this time, people were already intoxicated and had let loose. Because most fashion events are just people looking at each other, yet collectively trying to hide the fact that they are. A look I would come to recognise at every fashion week event. It was evasive yet subtly charged, as if they didn’t want to be caught looking but fully expected to be watched. Their expressions were unnatural, like the practiced poses models hold during a shoot. Calculated yet effortlessly detached. It forever unsettles me that we collectively choose to look cold and standoffish instead of warm and welcoming. Why is that?

I pushed through the crowd toward the bathrooms. I don’t know why I thought I could be alone and catch a breath there, because once again, I found myself waiting in line.  

The timing couldn’t have been worse—my crush was leaving the bathroom at that exact moment. We locked eyes. I gave him a small smile, and he gave me a big one.  “Hey! It’s so nice seeing you here!” He was clearly intoxicated. Normally quiet and a little timid, he was nothing like that now. “Come near the speakers later!” he shouted before running off.  I felt uneasy about how he spoke to me, like we were just casual friends. Like we hadn’t shared something special. Like he hadn’t already made me cry. But I was happy to see him nonetheless, so I went and found him near the speakers. We tried to talk over the music, but it was nearly impossible to hear. I was nervous, I always was around him. Someone once told me that the intense butterflies in your stomach eventually fade after your teenage years. I believe he was probably the last person I ever felt them with.  

The conversation was awkward—stupid questions like, “How was Japan?” and “What have you been up to in Paris?” We were constantly interrupted by people congratulating him on the show. I felt like a burden. I thought he felt like he had to stay with me out of guilt because of how he treated me, and nothing made me feel more embarrassed than knowing that someone felt bad for me. We sat next to each other without saying anything. A massive elephant was in the room, but this was not the place and time to address it. Having nothing to say made me nervous, but he made me so anxious that I had nothing to say. Looking back, I didn’t know why I stayed around, why I thought the night was going to get better. I didn’t know what could’ve changed my state of mind, maybe my friends would miraculously show up and make it through the gates of hell, but those chances were so slim. And I had hoped he would suggest leaving the party together, going for a walk, catching up to talk about what had changed in Japan. Maybe we would kiss somewhere under the yellow streetlights. But he was enjoying his time and was too drunk to care. I told myself that perhaps I should get an overpriced drink at the bar to loosen up. It took me another 20 minutes to get a vodka cran. Not only was it packed, but I was also met with passive-aggressive bartenders, which didn’t help with the way I was already feeling. Of course, that one drink didn’t do much, and I was a student with a budget. I was miserable and finally admitted to myself that the night wasn’t going to get any better. So, I swiftly said goodbye to London Man while he was getting a lap dance from a drunk model, grabbed my coat, and went outside. The fresh air hit my face, and I felt like I could breathe again.

The more I attended parties, the more I yearned to be one of the effortlessly cool fashion kids. The ones you’re never quite sure what they do, yet they’re always there. They seem to know everyone in the industry, traveling to all the fashion capitals every season, staying in luxurious hotels, and rubbing shoulders with celebrities and important figures. They carry an air of belonging, exuding confidence in every space they step into.  

I was too fixated on the wrong aspects of fashion—the superficial rather than the art. I kept telling myself that in time, once I started working and made more friends in the industry, I’d feel more at ease in those spaces. That I’d master the art of dressing, of walking into any event with grace and confidence. But that wasn’t necessarily the case.  

I did eventually start working, and I did meet some of the most inspiring creatives. I traveled the world for work, interned, and wrote for brands I once admired from afar. My personal style evolved (thank God). I no longer had to sneak into parties, pretending to be a fashion buyer or someone I wasn’t. Yet, despite all of this, the feeling of being out of place never fully disappeared. There are still moments when I feel incredibly uncomfortable, battling major imposter syndrome. No matter how prominently my name appears on invitations or how much I’ve earned my place at the table, I rarely feel good enough. And doing my best to work on it. 

But with time and growth, I’ve come to realise that, in the grand scheme of things, none of it really matters. Don’t get me wrong, the heart of the industry is beautiful, built by creative geniuses who pour their souls into their craft, bringing breathtaking designs and visuals to life. But everything surrounding it? Mostly fluff, designed to create an illusion of importance. And understanding this has been liberating. I’ve slowly taken a step back from that world. I still work in it, but I’m not as deeply involved as I once was. As I transition toward new pursuits, I find myself looking back on those days—days that now feel like a lifetime ago. And I can’t help but feel for my younger self, who just wanted to belong.  

I wish I could tell her that she would find her people in fashion. The ones who would never make her feel out of place.

Bali, January 2025

Save The Boy.

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Save The Boy.

Home » Archives for January 2025

Trump captured the support of young male voters in the 2024 U.S. elections, partly due to the influence of “manosphere” content creators. Figures like Joe Rogan, Adin Ross, the Paul Brothers, and Theo Von were uniquely effective in connecting with this demographic. Meanwhile, the Left struggled to resonate with young men and address issues important to them.  

A key topic of discussion has been the epidemic of male loneliness. Increasingly, men report feeling isolated and deeply depressed, driven by challenges such as difficulty forming meaningful connections, societal stigmas around expressing emotions, and a growing sense of purposelessness. The shift in gender roles also plays a role—men are no longer the sole breadwinners, as more women graduate and begin out-earning men, leading to a perceived loss of traditional identity and relevance.  

Masculinist content creators provide hope for young men who feel emasculated and insecure in a world where they often experience rejection and lack a clear sense of direction. Many blame feminism and “wokeness” for their struggles, believing these movements have stripped them of their power. However, the true cause may lie more in systemic issues like capitalism.  

I am not here to speak on American politics. But, I do have a 14 year old brother. 

I was watching a Max Bernstein YouTube video on the topic when pure panic took over me. I realised how little my mother and his dad monitored the media my brother consumes online. My parents never did with me. But what if my brother got pulled into the Red Pill community? What if he started consuming incel content and slowly became a raging misogynist, wishing harm upon women and seeing us as lesser beings? It sounds far-fetched—but not entirely. Indoctrination doesn’t discriminate. People from all backgrounds have fallen victim to harmful ideologies.  

I’ve seen it happen. I’ve gone to school with them, partied with them, called them my friends. Many of us had access to top-tier education. Our teachers constantly encouraged us to fact-check, taught us about propaganda, and explained the tools used to manipulate and persuade. Yet, I’ve seen those same people post absurd Instagram stories, overheard them say deeply questionable things about women, even down to admitting acts of sexual assault. Thousands of dollars spent on private education—undone by a few YouTube videos.  

In a panic, I texted my brother and asked him which content creators he liked watching online. He was confused and asked why. I said, “I’m writing a paper on influencers.” Being a teenage boy and not particularly interested in my work, he gave me a list. Thankfully, it didn’t concern me, and for a brief moment, I felt relieved.  

But that relief was short-lived. I knew things could change at any time. And what could I do to stop it? What could I, as his sister—a woman—do to ensure he wouldn’t end up hating me and all people of my gender?  

I thought about having those talks with him or monitoring his online activity myself, but I worried it might backfire. I recognise that I’m a misogynist’s worst nightmare—opinionated, headstrong, and unapologetic. Without my looks, I’d probably be a man-repellent, tolerated only by the strongest of the species, and I’m perfectly fine with that. But I might be too intense for a teenage boy who’s still figuring out who he is.  

I’m far too passionate about these issues. I know I’d end up word-vomiting all over him, covering him in big words, studies, theories, and statistics that would overwhelm him. Instead of engaging, he’d want to shrug it all off, to wash away everything I said. I’d take up too much space to actually help. I annoyed the hell out of my male peers in class, constantly keeping them in check, debating every issue, and standing up against sexist comments or behaviour. They found me absolutely insufferable.

The last thing I wanted was for my anxiety and paranoia to take over, leading me to overprotect my brother and suffocate him. I feared pushing him further away with my feminist tirades and relentless scrutiny, leaving him feeling ashamed of his masculinity. I didn’t want him to carry the burden of all men’s wrongdoings or grow tired of the constant feeling that he was inherently at fault.  

If I pushed too hard, he might feel the need to break free from me and from the women in his life—just to stand strong on his own. He might turn to the internet, searching for guidance on how to reclaim his identity, gravitating toward figures who teach him to take pride in being a man. He’d consume content that glorifies being “the alpha male,” letting those voices shape his idea of what it means to be strong, powerful, and worthy.  

Gym, protein, creatine, crypto, drop shipping, lambo, get any woman you want in 3 simple steps, upgrade, high value man, side hustle, alpha, alpha, alpha. 

It is hard to not be a man hating bitch, I have grown so extremely tired of living in fear doing the most mundane things, I am tired of hearing the most gnarly headlines about other women across the world losing their basic rights, another little girl getting raped by her perverted uncle, another woman killed in her own home… Heck! Even hearing my friends being victims of situationships and emotional manipulation. I wish I could be like some of these women who still have hope in men and believe that there more than just a few exceptions. I’ve always wondered where were these perpetrators mothers, sisters? Now, before you point at me and yell “IT IS NOT A WOMAN’S FAULT THAT A MAN BECOMES BE A SICKO!” I agree. I agree, girly, I guess partially. However, just like living through weaponised incompetence over and over again (something our male peers are so good at), I no longer trust brothers and fathers to do the job right. 

Yes, I’m sure your father is wonderful family man, but have you seen how he behaves when he goes out that the strip clubs? Oh he doesn’t go out to the strip clubs? How do you know that for sure?

Your brother is the sweetest, I’m sure he is at home, but do you know how he behaves with girls he is seeing? Do we know how the men in our lives truly behave when we aren’t there? 

We fail to remember that the men who hurt us and do the sneaky shit are also family members just like ours. Many of them were raised by great mothers, have sisters and in fact they like to use that as a way to prove that they’re good people and have an innate respect for women, but they have proven themselves wrong over and over again. It just isn’t enough. 

I don’t think my brother truly understands how anxious I am about the kind of man he will grow up to be. I like to believe he could never be a bad man—no, my baby brother is a good boy. He’s soft, empathetic, incredibly polite, thoughtful, and just so kind. We, as a family, have done our best to instill in him our values and norms, the kind that cling to your mind like barnacles on a whale’s back.  

Norms tend to stick, but values are more fragile—easily swayed by outside influences like greed or peer pressure. What if we didn’t give him a strong enough backbone? What if, despite our efforts, he lets everything we’ve taught him slip away?  

Secondary socialisation refers to the process of learning and internalising norms, values, and behaviours through new social institutions, groups, and experiences beyond the family (e.g., peers, schools, workplaces, and media). While it often intensifies during adolescence, it doesn’t only start in the teens—it continues throughout life as individuals encounter new social environments. This stage is often associated with rebellion, as teens push back against their families while exploring their identities but it is primarily about adaptation and growth through new social experiences. They adopt new values from their peers and what they learn in school, sometimes replacing older values with those that feel more aligned with who they are becoming.  

Don’t get me wrong—this can be a positive thing. Many teens break free from problematic family dynamics and find safe spaces through friendships that encourage them to grow into better people. But, like anything in life, the opposite can also happen. I’ve had moments where I noticed negative influences creeping in—a questionable text from a friend popping up as he showed me something on his phone or an offhand comment that made me tilt my head a little. Things, I am sure didn’t come from our extremely open minded family but from outside influences.

In these moments, I try to stay calm and remind myself that he’s experiencing life for the first time, just figuring things out just like I was at 14. Like we all still are. But sometimes, I can’t help it. My angry, feminist, 16-year-old self resurfaces, and I confront him, demanding to know how he could say something so ignorant. Then I see his confused eyes, trying to understand why that pissed me off so much? What is it that he didn’t know was so wrong?

So, I take a different approach. I ask him questions. I encourage him to think critically about what he’s saying before jumping to conclusions. Most of the time, his kind and understanding nature wins out, and every time, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief—like a superhero stopping an asteroid just before it crashes into Earth. The problem is contained.  

Moments like these have forced me to work on my patience and understanding, keeping the fiery teenage girl in me calm. For the first time, I care deeply about what a boy thinks. For the first time, I don’t want him to fear me.  

It hasn’t been easy watching my little brother, with such a big age gap between us, grow into a young man. In a way, I feel responsible for him. I’m not his mother, but it’s hard to accept how little control I have over the crazy things the internet throws his way. I could talk endlessly about the dangers of social media—its personalised algorithms, echo chambers, and how it limits diverse perspectives while amplifying extremes. But let’s face it, I’m powerless against the Zuckerborgs and Elongated Muskrats of the world. I can’t just yank his phone away. I have no control over who he will cross paths with. All I can do is trust him and occasionally remind him of the kind of family he comes from—one built on love and kindness. Let him form his own opinions and grow independently. That way, his beliefs will truly be his own, making him more confident and deeply rooted in his values—strong and set in stone.  

Sorong, January 2025

Pillow Princess

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Pillow Princess

Home » Archives for January 2025

I am reading My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh, and I didn’t expect to feel nostalgic. I sometimes miss the moments I just gave in to my depression. Moments when I decided to just put my hands in the air and say to myself, “That’s it, I’m done trying,” before crawling back to bed in my little room in my shared Parisian apartment. I’d lie there for days, make weird concoctions with whatever was available in the fridge, and stuff my face until I was super full to make sure I didn’t have to get up later on. I’d bring in weird snacks like trail mix and slices of ham just in case I got hungry. I’d lie under the covers and just stare at the desk in front of me, sometimes for very long minutes, thinking about how much I had failed yet again because here I was, in the same position as I had been a couple of weeks ago. I had gathered the strength to get myself together and worked towards bettering myself, but then I got tired again. So I’d crawl back to bed. 

There’s no other feeling like lying in fresh sheets, the cold pillow against my skin. I’d feel my body instantly release all the tension. I was safe again; nothing was expected of me in there. I kept my pills, the ones given to me by my psychiatrist for my insomnia and anxiety attacks, in a little white box secured with a red ribbon. They were special to me. They had the power to make it all stop. Just one of those, and I’d be out in 15 minutes, no matter how much I tried to fight it. I’d be gone for 12 hours minimum, experiencing no dreams, just void—a temporary death. Then I’d wake up in a haze, too groggy to worry about anything else, slowly making my way to the bathroom to pee before getting back into bed. The only energy I ever had was for maintaining minimal hygiene. I always found the strength to brush my teeth and shower because feeling unclean meant I couldn’t fully and comfortably go back to sleep.

Once I was up, I’d do any remote copywriting I had to do because it was the only way I could afford to rot there. If I wanted to stay in bed, I made sure I didn’t have to leave it and could upkeep the bare minimum of my responsibilities. Then I’d watch movies. I liked the ones that made me dream a little, made me feel like I was living through the characters I was watching, helping me strip away any guilt that could arise from choosing to wither away this way. Vicky, Christina, Barcelona was a good one, I too wanted to be in a throuple with Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz. Either that or rewatching the same three comic American TV shows with super bright colours to trick my brain into thinking I was in a good mood. How could you ever be sad watching Tina Belcher be Tina Belcher? But suddenly, the monstrous amount of screen time would make me physically nauseous, and I’d realise that the air in my room was awfully thick and stuffy, making it hard for me to breathe. It had been a couple of days of me lying in there; it was bound to happen. But it was already nighttime, meaning my friends were probably off work, so I’d guess I’d join them at the bar.

I’d try my best to look put together. I’d do a little bit of makeup and stick to my basic outfit, which was a pair of man jeans, a Uniqlo sweater, my Superpuff, and my Uggs. I’d walk out with just my cardholder, my keys, and my phone because a bag would annoy me. The first step outside is glorious. The first seconds of ice-cold air violating my skin are what I imagine the first line of coke feels like for a coke addict who hasn’t had one in a few days. It wakes me up and gives me a little bit of energy. I put my headphones in, listen to the same songs I’ve been listening to for years, and make my way to the metro station. Sometimes, the homeless guy that lives in front of my building is there, playing on his phone in his tent. I’ve never said hi to him, but when I come home drunk at night, I politely smile in hopes that my kindness will prevent him from wanting to hurt me—not because he’s homeless but because he’s a man. 

Boulevard Voltaire is never crowded at this time. I watch the people relieved they are getting off work, stopping by the grocery stores or the Chinese spot for those not in the mood to cook. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll witness all the yellow streetlights light up all at the same time. I take the stairs and buy a ticket at the machine. You’d think I’d have a monthly pass because I live in the city, but I don’t like to commit to these things. Sometimes I have a spare, so I do not have to get one. I look at the digital time board to see when the next train is coming. I am overcome with joy when I see “1 minute” and always run to the platform because one thing I do not like is waiting for the metro. The bright light and the sudden heat overstimulate me every time, but it’s only five stops, I tell myself, and I’ll be able to have that first sip of alcohol that’ll soothe me. I think it’s the closest thing to having a bottle as a baby. 

I wonder if my crush is going to be there this time. I always kind of hope he’ll be there because maybe he’ll take me home again, and I’ll get to sleep in his bed and pretend we’re in love. I don’t think too much about how I’ll feel like shit afterward. It would just be nice to be held and feel worthy because nothing else makes me feel that way. As I approach the crowded bar, I see the faces I am most familiar with, and I feel some type of comfort. There is no small talk to be had, no “hi, how are you’s,” no weather bullshit. Just straight to the point, like seeing your siblings after school. No mask to keep up. We are seated fairly quickly; we are regulars, and the staff knows us. We sit in the cold, huddled up, and are served the drinks I had been craving. We talk about everything—or shall I say, everyone—and the conversation is seamless. I do not feel like expressing the fact that mentally, I am down bad again. To be honest, it wouldn’t be news; it happens to me a lot, and they know it.

My crush isn’t there. He usually rarely is. But sometimes, the man a decade older than me that I had slept with on a few occasions stops by. We pretend we do not know each other, but if we are put in a situation where we have to acknowledge each other, we’d say hi like two colleagues. He never stays very long—usually there for a quick drink before he goes off to dinner. If it’s later, maybe a nightcap. Sometimes, when he leaves, I’d text him, and he’d ask me to come over to his flat, an eight-minute walk. So I’d walk the eight minutes, type in the code because I already know what it is, knock on his door, and barely talk to him before he strips me naked in the middle of his living room. Then he fucks me on his couch—very rarely on the bed. I think maybe he believes I’m not worth changing the sheets for. And that would last 20 minutes maximum. 20 minutes of mediocre sex because he is so very well-endowed it just straight-up hurts. He fucks me like they do in the hardcore movies—it’s mechanical, there’s no intimacy, but it just fills the void. I am unable to think about anything else, and that is a form of relief. I never finish. I make my way to the bathroom to clean myself up, get dressed, and stay just a little to be polite. I know he is also trying to be, but we both just want me to leave. Maybe a part of me sometimes wants him to want me to stay but that never happens. So as soon as the five minutes of small talk end, I run out the door. I feel nothing. Sometimes my friends would still be at the bar, so I’d join them again. If not, I’d walk back home. There I undress again, and shower. In hopes it’ll make me feel less like a slut. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with hunger and I make my way to the kitchen where I stuff my face. I can’t stop, it’s like a gaping hole that can never been filled. I eat and eat and eat standing up. Until I am in physical pain. And if I weren’t so afraid of vomit, I’d probably already be on my knees for the second time that night but this time over the toilet bowl, emptying myself. But instead, I lay in bed in pain from all the food but am also experiencing a weird calm. I stay up until early in the morning, watching whatever show I am hyper fixating on at that moment, late enough so that I can make sure that I wake up too late the next day to fulfil any obligations. By the time I open my eyes, it is late in the afternoon and if I’m even luckier it’s a late Friday afternoon meaning that I get to go out and be with my friends again and it’ll be a guilt-free pass to drink a lot and stay up late. I sit on the couch, scrolling on my phone, I find that it was the fastest way to kill time. I sit in whatever I slept in the night before, before hopping into the shower and getting ready. I’ve been looking ugly all week, so I do my big one and do a full face of makeup and make sure to wear an outfit I feel fuckable in, without it being too obvious. It could be a blouse buttoned down or a pair of trousers that I know makes my bum look nice. However I don’t intend to go home with anyone. Then I do the same route I did the night before, I can feel people staring on the train, I usually am looking good so I don’t blame them. 

Back at the same bar, and oddly enough, it never gets old. I high-five the owner, he compliments me, and I make my way to my friends. We drink, we laugh, and soon I’m itching for a cigarette I never have. So, as always, I steal one from Alex, who kindly says yes every single time. That first nicotine hit sends me over the edge—now I’m drunk. And when I’m drunk, I beg my friends to go to Belleville, to a dive bar called BootyShakers.  

It’s a grimy spot with sticky floors and an odd demographic. Most of the crowd is in their 30s, and we’re usually the youngest ones there. But their resident DJ, a middle-aged man, spins an eclectic mix of songs that somehow keeps me dancing. Random genres, unexpected transitions—yet it all just works. On the rare nights I convince my friends to go, we make a beeline for the bar to order Get27 shots, a minty liqueur that tastes like mouthwash. Four shots each, downed quickly. After that, I stick to vodka sodas, which I drink way too fast.  

Then comes the dancing—always in a circle, lost in the sweaty chaos. At some point, I look up to catch my breath and, inevitably, my eyes land on my ex-boyfriend’s and I’s initials on one of the walls. He wrote them on my birthday, during a night that felt like our own little world. UK drum and bass blasted through the speakers as he climbed up with a marker he always carried. “I love you,” he said, and in that moment, I thought forever might actually be real.  

I stare at the initials, remembering how it felt, and sadness creeps in. I snap out of it, shaking off the memory, and throw myself back into dancing.  

By the time the music stops and the bar closes, I’m stumbling into the cold air outside. We smoke one last cigarette before the bouncers shoo us across the street to avoid noise complaints. And, without fail, I suggest we egg my ex-boyfriend’s window—because he lives next door. “For the plot,” I say every time. My friends have to physically drag me away, insisting I’ll regret it in the morning. But I know I wouldn’t.  

I love imagining him struggling to clean the eggs off his pristine French windows, the clean freak that he is. The smell of yolk slowly invading his perfect room. The same room I helped him move into with his mother. I wonder if the coffee stain on his mattress that I made is still there. Does he think about me when he sees it, while changing the sheets with his new lady friends?

We’d stand there, still full of adrenaline and energy, wondering what else we could do, before ultimately agreeing that there was, in fact, nothing left to do. So we’d start making our way home toward the eleventh, going down the hill of Rue de Belleville, lined with shopfronts opened by hardworking immigrants. Their creative names and interesting font choices always caught my attention. When we finally reached République, I’d feel a pang of sadness, knowing it meant I’d be home soon. We’d stop in front of Ruby’s first to hug Alex goodbye before he continued his journey into the Marais. Ruby would wait with me until my cab arrived—she never liked me walking home alone late at night. I hated ordering Ubers, but I did it when I had no choice.  When the car arrived, I’d hop in, greeting the driver as Ruby called out, “Text me when you get home!” I never did. I usually struck up a conversation with the driver—it was the only interaction I’d have with a stranger for a while. We’d always end up talking about the same three things: Hidalgo and her “stupid” city plans, God, and the importance of freedom. Cab drivers, I’ve found, value freedom above all else.  If the driver was Muslim, they’d often ask if I was too, once they figured out I was Indonesian. I’d say yes, adding, “but I’m a bad one.”When they dropped me off in front of my building, some noticed the tent where the homeless man slept. They’d wait until I was safely at my door before driving away. I’d try to be as quiet as possible, gently closing the car door and tiptoeing to avoid waking him—because he, too, deserves a good night’s sleep.  Then the cycle continued. I’d wake up on Saturdays with a massive hangover, treating it as though I were truly sick. It gave me an excuse to “rest,” ignoring that this was entirely self-inflicted. After all, sick people deserve to rest when they’re not feeling well.  

So I’d lie there, binge-watch something again. Anxiety would creep in, thanks to the liquor from BootyShakers and the fact that I am no longer 17 years old. I’d take a magic pill to calm myself and sleep for what felt like forever, waking up only when it was Sunday again.  

On Sundays I usually meet Ruby for our late afternoon walks, which often happen when one of us has something weighing on our mind. Together, we gently unravel these thoughts, carefully analysing them, each as invested as the other. Our struggles feel shared: what she feels, I feel, and what I feel, she feels.  Our philosophical walks begin at her flat in the 11th, winding through the Marais and leading to the river. We stroll side by side, her blue eyes with their perpetually dilated pupils glowing under the warm orange hues of the setting sun. Her hair floats in the fresh breeze, mirroring the gentle dance of the leaves on the trees by the Seine.  Sometimes, we cry—timidly, hoping passersby don’t notice. The other discreetly strokes an arm in quiet comfort, careful not to draw attention, knowing neither of us would want that. Then if we’re not too broke we’d get some dinner together or she’d cook for me as we watch something. I then find the strength to go home, usually by foot and I take the long way because I love the calm that reigns the city on Sundays. I can think clearly and I finally take the time to process what it is I am going through because I know that the whole week ahead will be a blur once again. 

I was always miserable whenever I turned into Pillow Princess—there’s no doubt about that. Yet, I can’t help but romanticise those moments in my life. There was something cinematic about them: a helpless young woman, tortured by her own thoughts, in desperate need of a savior. I spent so much time pitying myself, hoping someone would find it endearing that I was so miserable.  No one did, and no one ever will. It only put me in vulnerable positions, opening myself up to the wrong people. It’s pathetic. I have no doubt I was mentally unwell—you have to be, I think, to act that way. But I was also being a coward.  Still, there are moments when I miss being her. Yes, it was pathetic, but at least I knew where I was headed. Everything was predictable. I wasn’t failing because I wasn’t good enough—I failed because I chose to. It was my decision, my control. There were no daily battles to be better, no constant effort to avoid letting myself down.  It takes so much energy to show up for yourself when you’ve spent years believing you don’t deserve it.

Pillow Princess still shows up now and then, but she doesn’t stay very long anymore. I think she’s getting bored. Maybe she’s starting to yearn for better things.  

Bali, January 2025

I know you’re watching.

/in /by

 

I know you’re watching.

Home » Archives for January 2025

I know you’re watching. You’ve been watching me ever since I was a teenager.

You’ve been watching me through the half-opened cabinet in my bathroom; you pay attention to the little drips slowly gliding down my skin— you are so close you can smell the faint scent of my almond shampoo in the steam that fills the room. 

You see me dance in my room alone when I come home drunk from a night out as I sloppily take off my clothes and get in bed naked because I cannot find the energy to put on my pyjamas. And when I cried after each heartbreak, you were there every single time. You couldn’t console me. Still, you had always thought I looked pretty when my skin was slightly flushed, my lips swelled up, and my eyes were bloodshot. You hide under my desk every morning, making sure to be there when I wake up, my hair undone, laying in bed, spending too much time scrolling on my phone before starting the day. You wish I had a morning stretch routine instead or actually took the time to cook a high protein breakfast. You follow me in the streets, hiding behind the trees, as I walk with my headphones in. You love it when it’s nice out because I tend to wear short skirts. You like how my legs look under the sun after you’ve seen me apply coconut oil all over them before stepping out. You appreciate how I hold my cigarette when I sit on the terrace of some bar in the 11th arrondissement, especially when my nails have just been painted crimson. 

You sit next to my bed every evening. You wish you could run your fingers through my hair that you’ve seen me brush earlier.

You are always there, you have studied everything about me, every quirk, every facial expression, how I carry myself, and how I view the world. I always try to impress you while doing the most mundane things. I try to do everything with the right amount of class and femininity while giving the impression of effortless charm. Your presence reminds me to sit up straight when I am working alone in my room, hold my stomach when I am getting ready, and slightly arch my back to keep a beautiful silhouette at all times. I panic a little when I forget to put some perfume on before going to the store. It is just a few minutes of my day, but I want to smell good for you.

You keep me in check. As much as I like to think that you’ll always love me, I fear I can never let my guard down because what if I disappoint you? What if I do something to disgust you, for you to see me less than a respectable woman? The thought of you catching me at a bad angle makes me anxious, and I can’t let that happen. All I know is that if I keep you happy, then everybody else will be happy with who I am. When I am well-perceived, that brings me comfort and sometimes great joy, and I thank you. That occasional praise and validation from others is oh-so rewarding, almost intoxicating. I know it makes me sound vain, but I can’t help it. I may be addicted to the warm fuzzy feeling that takes over me when complimented. It makes me feel like I have won, that all the work and anxiety behind my tedious beauty and fitness routines are worth it. I think I’m doing a fine job, don’t you think? Please tell me I’m doing a good job. I am, right? 

You are always there. Always. 

Sometimes, I wonder what it feels like to be truly alone. I don’t remember the last time I was and how that felt. I wonder if I’d be the same person if I weren’t so scrutinised by you all the time, if my mannerisms would be the same, would I put my makeup on the same way I do now, would I be wearing makeup at all? I don’t know if I am myself or just a character in this movie you are watching. I don’t really know who I am without you. It is worrying me, but please don’t get mad at me. I just feel like I can only see myself through your eyes, and I feel like I am only content with myself when I feel like you are. I don’t think I know what it’s like to relax; certain parts of my body have been sore for years because I have been holding myself a certain way. I have been in really complicated financial situations where I still prioritised the way I looked because you’ve taught me that without beauty, I am worth less and that I can not expect a full life without it. I sit through the pain of bikini waxes every month, even during the cold winter, even tho no one is there to see me naked just because, well… I don’t really know. But how ungrateful of me, I shouldn’t be complaining so much, no one likes someone who complains too much. Forgive me. 

However I feel like I should be honest for once. You know what? Yeah..! I should be! Because no one likes a dishonest woman right? 

So I must say there are moments I forget about your presence. I hope you won’t take it the wrong way, but it feels nice. It gives me a break, and my body can rest, but it doesn’t last very long, the shame that takes over hits really hard. You’ve made beauty the centre of my world and led me to believe that nothing else really matters. It is a painful philosophy to live by, it’s shallow and it makes me feel empty. But maybe you’re looking out for me knowing how our world works despite its attempts to cover its shallow nature with facades. But I feel like I do not want to be the kind to follow these rules. I want to break free more than anything, I want to be released from all this silly constraints. Yet, every time I pull away you manage to suck me back in with cruel words and manipulate me by making me believe that I’ll die alone. That if I let go, I’ll always be the one that is never seen, the one that people forget to say hi to. I can forget about having anyone ever want to be with me too! You make me believe that if I do not upkeep my looks, whatever career path I choose to follow will never reach its full potential. You are driven by the compliments made by my peers, yet, you make sure I never believe them for very long so that I strive to be better, to reach higher and of course to be skinnier. I know you wish that I could just starve. You wonder why is it so goddamn hard for me not to eat something sometimes? Why can’t I just suck it up and not find myself hunched over in the kitchen at 3 am, emptying the pantry? You think I am too weak, don’t you? You make sure I know it when you suck the joy of feeding my body by filling it with dread and regret as soon as I’m done. You can be so cruel. 

Sometimes I’d like to take my two thumbs and gouge your eyes out ever so gently, press slowly, until I feel your blood drip on my hands down to my forearms, like the sticky juice of a very ripe peach after the first bite on a warm summer day. And you wouldn’t make a sound as you experience the pain you have caused me, a taste of your own medicine. And you would never ever be able to see or perceive me again. I like to imagine you sat in the corner of my room defeated where I’d keep you alive just so you can experience the deep frustration of not being able to control me. But you aren’t real. What a shame. 

I fantasise of a life where you do not need to be around for me to feel validated, a life where I let others see me the way I truly am, unaware and oblivious of what people might think. Where I value my wit, intelligence and kindness above all. Where I am only concerned about my body’s health and its strengths, where looks are not something even remotely important. I can almost taste the freedom, I sit here and think about how it would feel, for a moment I can almost taste it.

Paris, June 2024