Ironically, maybe, I’ve never felt a more potent grade of jealousy than the strain that’s been flooding my system over the past few months. It’s as if milestones provoke some kind of immune response with their completion, like a fever your body conjures to smoke out previously undetected pathogens, or underlying veins of desire that you didn’t know existed all this time, too. I feel shocked by the number of other lives I want so urgently, all the ones that I (now have hours to) luxuriantly, obsessively window-shop from the Instagram conveyor belt. The work colleague eternally posting from a red carpet somewhere, the friend with the luminous baby bump, the indefatigably social ex, the younger writer friend—
"u mad bro?": on jealousy and “Beef”
"u mad bro?": on jealousy and “Beef”
"u mad bro?": on jealousy and “Beef”
Ironically, maybe, I’ve never felt a more potent grade of jealousy than the strain that’s been flooding my system over the past few months. It’s as if milestones provoke some kind of immune response with their completion, like a fever your body conjures to smoke out previously undetected pathogens, or underlying veins of desire that you didn’t know existed all this time, too. I feel shocked by the number of other lives I want so urgently, all the ones that I (now have hours to) luxuriantly, obsessively window-shop from the Instagram conveyor belt. The work colleague eternally posting from a red carpet somewhere, the friend with the luminous baby bump, the indefatigably social ex, the younger writer friend—