You know you’re a micro celebrity when people recognize you in the bathroom line, the waiter at dinner bringing the bill, the teenage girls whispering “It’s her, it’s her” in public and hundreds of instagram DM’s with emotional paragraphs of “OMG I LOVE YOU” and “c*nt I hope you burn in hell”. When you’re internet famous enough to be a meme, but not enough to be at the Met Gala.
Being a micro celebrity is such a strange affliction. I’m not rich (yet), I’m not on VOGUE beauty secrets video even though my face card is l-e-t-h-a-l, and I’m still on the Raya waitlist. I’m not famous, I’m just the main character in five different people’s pinterest boards titled “chaotic muse”.
I became a micro celebrity by accident (for divine chaos and sexy edits of myself I watch before bed). I post things loud enough to echo through a few hundred thousand screens, make people laugh, cry, hate me just enough to share it in their group chats or to get a DM of a “paparazzi” pic of me taken by a 14 year old girl with the text “I want to be you when I grow up”. I start wondering if I’m a brand, a person or a projection. You watch your personality get chopped up and get back to you in comments, reposts, and out of context quotes.
You know you’ve made it when your comment section starts to split. Half are “mother is mothering”, the other half are people arguing and wanting to kill each other over a video of me spinning in circles titled “has anybody else completely lost it or is it just me and Kanye?”. You’re chronically perceived, digitally dissected, and emotionally over-analyzed by people who call you an icon but also say you peaked 6 months ago. One person said “You’re my Roman Empire”, another said “remember when you were pretty and mentally unstable?” I’m not sure if I’m a muse or a meme-and frankly, neither are they.
And the best part? You still take the bus. You still get ghosted. You still have to financially prepare yourself to buy olive oil and toilet paper. I’m not famous-famous, I’m just the girl people squint at like a glitch in the simulation.
People say things like, “I feel like I know you”, which is flattering until you realize they mean it in the way of romanticizing a completely feral and insane but 10/10 fictional character. Like babe, thank you for supporting my small business and stalking my whole digital footprint for hours and hours probably crying laughing, after which I get paragraphs in my DM’s confessing things you probably should’ve taken to the therapist. And the eternal honor of knowing somewhere out there, a group chat is discussing whether or not my new post is a cry for help or just seasonal depression. (Spoiler: it was both.)
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way. I joke a lot, but the truth is – I see the love in the unhinged DM’s, the saved posts, the “you’re literally me” comments typed mid-breakdown. I see it, I feel it, I exploit it for my own inspiration. Thank you all for letting me be your emotional support niche microcelebrity.
So thanks for letting me be your muse, your mess, your meme.
With love,
Sonya xx
