What a strange, dark summer it has been.
On-and-off thunderstorms. Scorching sun. Miscommunication. I didn’t sleep one full night last week; I only started eating again this weekend. On Saturday I got a neon, Sasha Yazzie-inspired full set of acrylic nails because I’m more underwhelmed than heartbroken. The Hot Girl Summer, I’ve come to believe, is little more than a function of our collective anxiety—at least in Providence, where we mask our deep insecurities with lots of flowery theory and half-baked ideas that just sound radical. Somehow I don’t think that’s original, but we act like it is. I act like it is. And since self-introspection doesn’t make for interesting Snapchat stories, we just don’t get too attached to anything.
Or we buckle under our own fear of being seen, of being found out. I’ve been told three times in my life that I’m a heartbreaker. I just think these well-intentioned, woke, “radical” types don’t yet understand Narragansett womxn are not to be crossed. It’s all land acknowledgements and hashtags until we start calling them on their machismo.
Not to get too meta. The whole thing was dumb, honestly: he didn’t like when I danced at parties when other guys were around. He liked the fit of my dress and my curls and my cheekbones, but not that I ask pointed questions.
What can I do? Summer comes and summer goes. On Saturday I got my nails done, put on a dress with a deadly fit, and went dancing with my friends. I’ve been here before, and I’ve survived enough heatwaves in enough cities to know when I’m being fetishized. Or overly sensitive.
Somebody tell Sivan I say thank you for helping me to feel seen.