To my royal subjects;
Everyone’s always judging everyone. Me especially. The club is less Studio 54, and more the People’s Court. Every outfit is evidence, every drink order is a bullet in a proverbial gun, every bathroom trip is a cross-examination forensic unit. And yet, no one has a leg to stand on.
I know, because I do it too. Side-eyeing a girl’s thrift-store mini when mine is one dry clean away from disintegrating. Rolling my eyes at someone “trying too hard” when I spent three hours gluing myself into this corset. Dragging a guy in my head for ordering a vodka soda while knowing I’ll be asking for the same thing in twenty minutes. It’s all glass houses and thrown bottles. The grass isn’t always greener, it’s just lit better on someone else’s Instagram story.
And here’s the uglier truth. I used to be the one being judged. Back when I was orbiting Orthodox Jewish spaces, I learned that no matter how much effort I put in, it was never enough. The skirt wasn’t long enough, the neckline wasn’t high enough, the performance wasn’t holy enough. I felt like a knockoff of a knockoff, always missing some invisible standard. I felt like the Kohl’s of people. My mom used to say she didn’t like shopping there because the “colors never seemed right”. Well, I’m not so right either so this checks.
Now, in the grand kingdom of Manhattan, I judge differently. I do not measure modesty, I measure Maison Francis Kurkdjian. I do not grade religious fervor, I grade whether your outfit screams “Instagram boutique” or “actually vintage.” If their shoes read as “Net-a-Porter” or “Depop girl with delusions.” I swapped one kind of judgment for another, which might be progress or might just be pettiness in a prettier outfit. But that's the privilege of being a former ugly girl. Me and my negative canthal tilt are just going to have to rough this one out. That or I own being a professional hater.
Sometimes I catch myself mid-thought with my mental scorecard and realize it's stupid. None of this matters. No one remembers who wore what at 3am when the lights come on and everyone’s eyeliner is melting off. You’re either too drunk to care or too high to notice my heart beating through my chest as I imagine someone might mention the smallest detail. Judgment in the club is like confetti, it sparkles in the air for a second before someone has to sweep it up. That’s why I know I need to touch grass. Literally. Walk barefoot in the park, breathe air that doesn’t smell like fog machine juice, remind myself that the world is bigger than perfume counters and bottle service tables.
But god, it's so fun.
Judgment isn’t about accuracy, it’s about sport. A pastime for the court. A little game that keeps us moving until the sun rises. Nobody wins, yet everyone plays. And while I would love to stand above it all like a saint, that would simply be another lie in my divine chain of them.It keeps my night moving, the way we remind each other (and ourselves) that we exist. Nobody wins, but everyone’s playing the long con. And I’m no angel.
So no one has a leg to stand on. We gotta keep limping, strutting, dancing anyway. Sometimes I even remember to step outside, touch grass, and let it all go.
Commit to the bit or die trying.
Your drama queen,
Finnian