The word of the year is BONKERS

I type in last year’s Sandy Liang show address and take a joyride uptown for no reason. I could still make it on time but decide it’s best not to drag my vintage Prada pumps through another snow-covered embankment. Instead, I draw a bath and scroll through street style photos from yesterday. The word of the year is BONKERS. What if I started wearing a STYLENOTCOM x ZARA hoodie? I keep reading about sincerity but I don’t know what it means. If I ever dressed sincerely I’d be naked, barefaced, humiliated. The opposite of Bianca Censori.

I’m trying to be more positive but it’s February and my throat hurts and I’ve decided that dishonesty is worse than pseudo-optimism. Still, I can’t stop telling everyone how EXCITED I am for the Love Shack Fancy presentation. It’s good to know what Trumpy people are up to but I’m giving up my STANDING ticket to Elena Velez. I’m too sick for that kind of show.

People are saying that intersectionality is over. No one cares about diversity or equity or inclusion. The LGBTQIA+ background on my Instagram thread with Riley is gone but we always knew it was a joke. I tell her she’s been posting too many stories about a rich man who’s been ripping off poets but I regret it. Now isn’t the time to let money bags off the hook.

Some writers say that Substack is a revolution but my feed is starting to look more and more like Instagram. I scroll and scroll and ask myself, will it will ever stop being February?