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The other day I published this note:
It came from me rambling in the voice note above—fresh out of Publix, clutching a shiny new box of Sugar-Free Watermelon Red (my fav & it’s so addicting I’m screwed), still reeling from these two essays that slapped me in the face just hard enough to be a useful wake-up call.
Lately, money and creativity have been taking turns kicking me in the shins.
(So fun)
Mostly because I’m unemployed and going stir-crazy, but also because the thought of working some soul-draining job makes me want to lie face down on Publix’s icky sticky epoxy floor, right next to the raw chicken beef tallow, and never get up.
Yeah, I went there.
Meanwhile, the urge to spend money I don’t have on plane tickets to Europe and expensive jeans that make my ass look downright delicious is unbearable.
I think I have magpie syndrome.
Quite the conundrum, no?
Anywayzzz, these essays reminded me why it’s crucial to be completely, recklessly, unapologetically yourself—even if that means being a Mermaid floating around aimlessly until she finds the most divine coral reef to call home.
[^…still not over it]
’s piece I didn’t want a job gave me some sort of nameless thrill. Or maybe it was just anxiety. Probably both.
Because, damn. I feel that.
I also want my one silly little life stuffed to the brim with love and art and culture and fashion and music and beauty.
I want to orbit interesting people with that mysterious, sexy business savvy. And people who are smarter, funnier, and more talented than me—because, I have to. It’s a necessity.
I need it.
All of it.
I want the whole damn thing—money and joy. Not one at the expense of the other.
It’s not that I don’t want a career, it’s that I refuse to accept some sad consolation prize when I know damn well what’s actually meant to be mine.
Am I wrong for that?
Does this ambition make me superficial or selfish?
I don’t think so.
It’s not like I’m a bad person, you know?
I know what’s most important in life: family, friends, good health, etc. But why should that have to come at a cost of the other fun stuff?
It shouldn’t.
And I refuse to let it to.
Every time I scroll the featured tab on Substack, I feel both exhilarated and doomed.
There’s so much talent. It makes me want to be better. It makes me want in.
And I don’t want to do it alone—what fun is that?
I want to be in it with you and anyone else who feels that same manic itch for fun and creativity and connection and adventure.
reminded me in her piece of something I desperately needed to hear: stop rejecting yourself before the world even gets a chance to. Be delusional. Be brazen. Be the kind of person who walks into a room and orders life to unfold exactly how they want it.And I want that.
I want this—Substack, this ridiculous digital blog thingy, Pretty in Person—to be my adventure that leads me to it all. I want to live anywhere, make enough money to create freely, and turn my absurd little thoughts into something that makes a band of bad bitches feel like they can take on the world and slay some serious dragons.
Is that so much to ask???
(No)
I think it’s finally time to read the infamous Anaïs Nin that everyone on here raves about, though I have a feeling the second I crack her open, she’ll grab me by the collar of my pilled cashmere sweater, shake me out of my lazy-lizard daze, and demand that I start actually living.
And then? Who knows—chaos, mayhem. Or even worse… the confidence of Britney Spears in a Pepsi commercial.
That’s some scary shit, man. Not sure if you guys are prepared for that...
(Me neither lol)
So0oO0oOo, ya.
If you made it this far, thanks for humoring me—you’re a real one.
PLZ don’t forget to subscribe before you press that gray ‘X’ in the top left. It fuels my madness and, in all sincerity, is a big part of creating something better than I ever could’ve dreamed up on my own.
OKAY THANK YOU LOVE YOU BYE.
-Bx
