I Am Happy.

THIS IS AN OPINION PIECE. THE OPINIONS OF THE AUTHOR DO NOT REFLECT WHAT THE INQUIRER AS AN ORGANIZATION BELIEVES.

Dear me, 

Likes. I am happy. I’m grateful of all the things I have done so far and I continue to live by them. I admit, I’ve destroyed countless friendships and relationships, but I love my obsession. I love being liked. This is me, and I have learned to accept this new life. 

I am obsessed with being popular. Why, because it makes me happy! I get friends to chat and gossip with, I get boyfriends to go to movie nights and repost reels on Instagram about. I get to be the center of attention without really doing much. Whenever I walk in the corridor, everyone turns their heads toward me. Likes. I get daps, high-fives, and even handshakes from the most sincere and closed-off people. That’s how popular I am. 

A pro of this is being entrusted without everyone’s secrets. Whenever someone breaks up or is thinking of committing suicide, I deal with it. I’m known as the therapist, of sorts. I toil day in and day out, revising through the screenshots they sent me as “evidence” and remembering to follow through with my daily repetition of the phrase, “It will all be okay”. And for most of them, things did indeed become okay. Likes. 

Of course, these things do indeed require a lot of effort. To be popular, you need to be nice to everyone all the time, without showing what you really think. I have to dress up, put on my makeup and pretty dress and show off to all the boys and girls that I am so pretty, because I AM pretty. I’m the best version I can ever be today because I chose to be popular. Likes. 

I love being who I am not. I love covering my face with a mask, suffocating my true identity inside, too scared to really show who I am. What if they don’t like me for me? It’s too big of a risk! I love agreeing with everyone. When I am not at peak condition, I will have to beat my spirit into a messy, juicy pulp, just like the protein shake I have every single day. I love cutting my wrists, feeling the blood gush out of the holes I have poked. And when I am lying in my own pool of blood, sweat, and tears, the humid air in my bathroom smelling of metal, I can regard myself as perfect. Likes. Because what is the final stage of being flawless? It is to have flaws. I love feeling nothing inside because the character I have put up for the past three years has been slowly murdering the true me to the point where I’ve forgotten who I am. 

I know the names of every single beauty product, eyelash curler, and foundation, but I hardly know what I really feel, and what I want to do with my life. My favorite thing is the dopamine rush I get from the bright red hearts and the likes I get on my posts. Likes. Those are some of the only moments where I feel pure joy and happiness, having achieved my goal in life. Then I get hooked. Likes. I love that melancholy happiness. I will get surgeries to make my body look more weird, odd, and inhuman because people love those kinds of things. Likes. I will inject Botox straight into my cheeks and facial muscles, crystalizing my face into a robotic, pathetic grin. When I try to cry or smile, I shed a tear because I do not have the physical capacity to do so. Likes. To get more money for my implants, I do adult content, catering to the weird kinks men and women are willing to pay thousands of dollars for. Likes. I eat well, I sleep well, and I am well. Likes. 

Yesterday I saw the film Wall-E, and when I look into the eyes of that puny little robot, I surprisingly see myself. Augmented, pointless, small. I remember all my friends, but they don’t remember me. As if I was never in their life, they tossed me aside like some homeless man on the streets of Beverly hills. They’ve made families, companies, initiatives. Likes. They’ve found wives, and husbands, and have made kids. Likes. And what am I doing? Likes. Well, I’m doing what I love. Likes. 

I am happy. I am happy. I am happy. 

Save me from my happiness.