Fiction: I'm A Role Model

By Kat Gál

 

I routinely snap a photo of my morning green smoothie between two yawns. Naturally, it's in a huge mason jar, as always. I can’t miss the metal straw and a slice of lemon for garnish. They are an essential part of the perfect composition, just like the flowers peeking in the background. I press the red button on the coffee machine. I tweak the photo a bit and post it. “I hope your morning is off to a great start too.♥️♥️♥️ #greensmoothie #perfectmorning #morningroutine” 

The coffee’s ready. I pour the disgusting green mix down the sink without even looking at it. It tastes so bitter and grassy. I slump down on my soft pink couch and turn on Netflix. Pink isn’t my favorite color, but it looks good in videos. A sponsor sent it last year. At least it’s comfy. And free. I don’t ask for much.

Work can’t stop, not even during Gilmore Girls reruns. It’s fall. I always binge watch it this time of the year. I’m such a cliche, I know. Every girl is watching Gilmore Girls and Gossip Girl this time of the year. I can’t help it though. It’s not even for social media. I mean, I post about it and my fans love it, but if I’m honest, I watch it for my own pleasure. Such a comfort show. I’m #teamJess all the way, baby.

I scroll through Instagram and share whatever seems popular. I steer clear of stuff that causes too much controversy. I’ve avoided the vaccine debate altogether. Other topics hit the algorithm just right. Like when Barbie came out and I posted all kinds of feminist stuff. That was a hit. I clapped back at every snarky dude and conservative bitch. People loved my comebacks. Posts like those get tons of reactions, and the algorithm just pushes me toward popularity and fame. The sponsors love it too. I don’t have to worry about cash flow anymore.

It was never about the money though. At first, anyway. I started a blog back in college. I wrote it under a fake name because I was still kind of embarrassed and I didn’t want to be recognized. Being an influencer wasn’t a thing then. There wasn’t Instagram yet and we only used Facebook to keep in touch with friends and post bullshit about our drunken nights. All I wanted was to pour my heart out. It felt good to be read. It felt so good to be heard. To be seen. It felt like I finally had friends. It felt like people cared about me. 

Then one day, I went viral. My follower count blew up. During my Junior year, right after New Year’s, I announced I was switching to a healthy lifestyle. I didn’t really mean it, but my readers loved it so much, I had to keep going. By the time I graduated, I was running an incredibly popular raw vegan blog. Of course, no one knew I was secretly eating Nutella, spooning it out right from the jar, and finishing it up in one sitting. They didn’t know I hated kale. After college, I traveled around Europe for a bit. London, Paris, Milan, Rome. I was popular as the solo female traveler, a free spirit who always looked good despite living out of a backpack. I started Youtube and vlogging during my travels. Then I moved to LA, and started leaning into shopping hauls and outfit posts. It was more popular than anything. 

I get up, even though I don’t feel like it. After a big stretch, I head to the closet. I grab a pile of clothes and take a bunch of selfies in front of the mirror. “Which outfit should I wear today?” I post a bunch of options and the votes roll in. I get so many DMs complementing my looks, along with a few trolls. I wanted to wear jeans and a white top, but everyone voted for the peach dress. So peach it is. I run to the nail salon. I got my nails done last week but I need new content. I shoot a video shopping at Sephora. Of course, I put everything back and leave with an empty basket. I don’t need new stuff and my sponsors will send me free things anyway. 

“Ice cream in November. #treatyourself #livingmybestlife” I’m rubbing it in that LA is still hot late fall. My readers from the Midwest are jealous but living vicariously through me. The ice cream ends up in the trash. I snap a few pics in a bookstore too. “I love reading. #bookworm” I get home exhausted, can’t wait to change into sweatpants. At home, I make myself a small peanut butter sandwich. I’ve barely eaten all day, except for the coffee and a yogurt. I eat half of the sandwich and toss the rest. I scroll through Reddit comments. All lies. Bastards. They’re just jealous. I fall asleep alone in front of the TV, hugging my teddy bear.

“Hey guuuuyyyysssss,” I’m smiling into the camera the next morning. A thick layer of make-up is covering all my pimples and blemishes, but I put on a solid filter too, just in case. You never know. “How are you? I hope your week’s off to a great start. I had an awesome Monday, and I’ve got aaaweeesooomeee plans for today too. I can’t wait! Aaaand, great news guys, I’ll be vlogging alllllll daaaayyyyy. I’ll take you guys everywhere with me. You can follow my stories, and, as always, the full video will be on YouTube tomorrow. I’m pumped, it’s gonna be soooo exciting. You know, my boyfriend is in Texas for work this week, so I only planned girly stuff we can do without him… Let’s goooo!” 

I don’t have a boyfriend, but my followers don’t know that. I told them he’s a very private person and doesn’t like being on camera. Everyone says that. People usually buy it. Of course, I get questions about him, but I make things up or ask them to, please, respect our privacy. The speculations about him. I run around the city…go to my hair salon for new highlights…walk on the beach…go to a café. What a perfect day. I even shoot some pictures and videos while grabbing a cocktail with another LA influencer. We’re not actually friends. But we pretend so we can promote each other. I stay up all night editing. 

Sometimes I wish I had someone to hold me on nights like this. I post a picture of a chick flick. “Movie night! Have you seen it? #selflove #metime” I check Reddit. High school was worse. If I survived that, I can handle anything. I fall asleep holding my teddy bear.

“I love your video. It made my day. Thanks.” Comments like this make it feel worth it. They love my vlogs. I was always the ugly duckling in school. Boys used to tease me, saying I’d never have boobs. Well, guess what? They grew. The surgery was bearable. I didn’t get along with the girls either. They said I was weird. I remember the panic attacks too. And how the teachers… 

Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore. Over a million people follow me on Instagram, and I have 500,000 YouTube subscribers. 505,675 to be precise. And counting. I work with major sponsors. I fly first class. I have freedom. Freedom to do whatever I want. Freedom to travel. Freedom to buy whatever I want. Isn’t it what everyone wants? I remind myself every time a former classmate posts a happy family photo.

After another boring make-up tutorial, I have a podcast interview, then I’m taking photos for sponsors all afternoon. Freedom has its price, I’m busy all the time. I nibble on half an apple while replying to comments and posting new content. I post the remaining pictures yesterday. You’ve gotta stretch that content. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t go into the museum, I snapped a pic outside. That’ll do. “Wondering around my favorite museum, looking at magical art. #lifeisgood #Iloveart” Between two clothing haul stories, I post something about LA culture, consumerism, and overspending. They love it when I bash LA. But also when I praise it. They’re jealous. Except the haters on Reddit. They have boring lives and pour their misery into hate. It’s all lies, I tell myself. But I can’t stop myself from lurking.

r/VegAnnLifeSnack

@VegAnnLife Annie is full of lies

“This one’s gonna be juicy.” I keep reading. It’s probably the same old stuff again. How I ended up in LA. That I have a sugar daddy (I don’t). That I have rich parents (not true). That I must eat meat (I don’t). I don’t eat anything, really. That… same old stuff, until one comment catches my eye.

Low-Expectations3654

“I went to the same school with any.” No way. “We sat next to each other during US history and calculus. We were friends at first, but she was always so weird.” Amanda? No way. “First of all, Annie was never fat. Don’t believe a word she says. She didn’t lose weight from her vegan diet. She was a skeleton. Totally anorexic. I bet she made herself throw up too. And dumb as a rock. She always just stood there like an idiot when the teachers called on her. Her name is not Annie either. It’s Christine.”

A tear escapes. No. No. No one can ever know these things.

I break into a sweat as the teacher flips through the roll book. Just not me. I studied. I swear I did. I understand the material. But don’t ask me, please. “Christine Miler.” Goddammit. “It’s your name, idiot,” Amanda whispers. I feel dizzy. “Can you repeat the question, please.” The teacher seems frustrated. She murmurs something Marshall Law. I can hear the entire question. I feel like I’m under water. Sweat is running down my back. My armpit is soaked. My heart is pounding. “Did you prepare for today’s class?” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat is closing. My chest is tight. My heart is pounding so fast it might burst. I want to speak but I can’t. Everyone is laughing. I want to lay down. I want to curl up. Please, don’t hurt me. I’m scared. “You can sit down. Patricia Smith. Can you answer the question.” I run out of the classroom crying and throw up my lunch. Nobody runs after me.

No. No. Nooo. They can’t know about this. Nobody knows about this. I am elbow deep in a jar of Nutella, shaking and crying. 

I started a new life. I didn’t know it then, but those were panic attacks. ADHD. Anxiety. And panic attacks. But nobody knew. Nobody cared. The teachers couldn’t stand me. And I became a target to the bullies. I was a little grey mouse. A joke. A shame. The girl who got egged.

But I turned my life around. Thanks to Botox, I have no more sweat stains. Or wrinkles. I got my teeth straightened and whitened by an expensive dentist. I got my boobs done and, eventually, hired a stylist. The vegan blog funded a real glow-up. By the time I showed my face and revealed my name, I had a new look and a new name. I traveled. I moved to LA. I turned from a faceless blogger into a lifestyle YouTuber. 

I was free from my past. Freedom. That’s what everybody wants. Not just freedom to travel, freedom from corporate America, and financial freedom. But freedom from my past. Freedom for myself. Freedom to be whoever I want to be.

And now they know.

No. That’s can’t be They won’t believe her. She is just a troll. It can’t ruin me. They can’t find out…

I’m an influencer. I’m a role model.

As I’m wiping away my tears, I realize the Nutella is gone. Two jars. And a whole box of Oreos too. I can’t be fat. They can’t believe her. I’m not who they think I am. I’m clutching to the paws of my teddy bear as I rush to the bathroom. I throw up all the sugary junk. I stare into the toilet bowl, trembling. My heart’s pounding. I’m laying on the floor in my own vomit, still gripping my teddy bear’s hand. My only friend. But somehow, I feel relieved. In control. Free from the demons. For a moment.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll start the day with a sunny yoga video and a green smoothie.

 

 

 

 

 

Kat Gál is a writer, runner, traveler, bookworm, and cat-lover. She is a freelance writer and mental health advocate and enjoys creative writing in her free time.