Dazzling white smiles sink their teeth deep into my unsuspecting flesh. They grab ahold with neat, sculpted rows of porcelain. I am dragged down into a spiralling pit of fifteen-second videos, strung inside a web of pixels and perfectly photoshopped bikini bodies.
My idol of the week is a twenty-something millionaire living in a high-rise apartment in New York. She tries to sell me two-hundred-dollar candles and anti-ageing, spot-reducing, miracle-working wonder cream that guarantees flawless skin, hair, and boobs. Made from the essence of one human sacrifice and aqua ethically sourced from the fountain of youth.
I add both to my cart.
I spend the first three hours of every morning studying her meticulously. I watch every TikTok, pausing each frame to examine the way she moves and talks, perfecting her smile in the mirror. I scour the internet for her exact outfit, down to her vintage belt and hoop earrings. Dreams of becoming her begin to solidify. I watch her open thousands of dollars of brightly coloured packages, freely gifted. Each plastic bottle, yearning to grace her sleek, minimalist shelves, will instead meet its fate in the trash by morning. Side-by-side with Michelin Star bone broth and Bloom supplement powder. She says she loves this lip gloss/tank top/drink bottle, and she already has it in six other colours! This one will go well with her collection.
Today, she eats half a banana before pilates and meets her friend for a ten-dollar matcha at her new favourite spot that we all need to try. Tonight, she’ll model at New York Fashion Week before making out with an A-list celebrity at a Gucci after party. Everyone will applaud her upcoming debut in some indie movie and ask her when her streetwear fashion label will be launching.
At 11:11, I make a wish to be just like her when I grow up.
She’s the most humble, generous person I know. She says all I need to be just like her is a smidge of Botox, attractive parents to pass down good looks, and lots of hard work, dedication and connections. Her honesty is admirable. I long for the day she notices me. I paint my walls with her pictures, a mood board of every aspiration and goal for my future. A constant reminder of how perfect my life could be if I stepped inside her skin.
She has become my new religion. Her every post feels like a lifeline, pulling me out of bed each morning. I obsess over every insight into her lifestyle, doling out likes and comments like prayers. In return for my worship, she rewards me with a bible of sorts: her top ten tips for glowing up. I eat from her palms; she eats from my engagement.
She burns brightly behind her ring light, skin shimmering with an ethereal glow. She is effervescent and unreachable. She is my best friend. She spills her secrets over FaceTime-like videos as she does her makeup for a brand deal, her script carefully tucked behind the camera. I’m so proud of her when she reaches 100,000 followers. She says she’s grateful for all of us. Especially me. She wouldn’t have been able to achieve everything she has without me. She’s just a girl from some small town who can’t believe she gets to live this life every day, and she owes it all to me. She says she really believes that if we put the effort in, we too can have it all.
She’s my biggest inspiration.
Next month, my wardrobe becomes a mass grave, overflowing with dead trends I was convinced would make me as cool as her. As my eyes grow heavy, and carpal tunnel settles deep into the nerves of my scrolling thumb, I’ll find a new muse. Far shinier and dazzling than the last. Ready to guide me in the right direction.