Hot

and how much I owe in taxes

The second it hit 80 degrees in Manhattan, I should have known something was about to shift.

The city does this thing where it soft launches chaos with good weather. Everyone forgets who they are for a second. Including me. What am I doing at Bar Pisellino on a Wednesday afternoon?

Spending forty dollars on Aperol Spritz’s and a new Verizon hotspot.

I owe forty dollars to the state of New York, which feels both insignificant and deeply personal.Somehow- I am still going to find a way to blame Eric Adams. Someone posted a photo the other day where I was clearly in the background with him. For a second I thought it was AI. Everyone kept texting me like “is this you and Eric Adams hanging out?” First of all, probably. I have waved hello more than once at Socialista on West Broadway, above the Cipriani I only go to so people can confirm I am, in fact, not dead ( The best one is Central Park south).

In terms of life updates, I have been aggressively MIA. Any public appearance involving friends has been quietly cancelled due to my own up and down, slightly unhinged emotional state. Instead, I have been on my grind set. Which is less sexy than it sounds. It is mostly sitting down, shutting up, and trying to make money for a while so I can fund some crazy dreams. The ones you’re allowed to have until you're 30. After that people don’t think it’s cute anymore.

Also, restarting my frequent Substack. Hi.

I was going to write something about my disenfranchised grief, but I am not ready to share that. And even if I was, I don’t know who would care. Which is maybe the point, or maybe just me being dramatic. Both can be true.

Sometimes I wish I was one of those cutie NYC girls who posts matcha and outfits and sunlight hitting a perfect table. Their lives feel so easy. Or at least their feeds do. They have boyfriends who book tables at Tao and fly them to a remote Italian village once a year like it is a normal occurrence.

I mean, I do that too. I just feel worse about it. I’m not like other girls. I actively enjoy making my life more difficult. It is a personality trait at this point.

If I am being honest, a lot of my self esteem issues trace back to the fact that I did not grow up pretty. I had to build it. Pay for it. Manufacture it. At some point I looked in the mirror and it was like I had become a new person. Except I wasn’t.

I was the same person, just hotter. More consumable. More acceptable. My friends don’t ask me if I’m ok anymore, they just count the bones in my sternum.

There is 8.

Best,

Finnian