She belongs to the algorithm, bless her heart

i am a weapon of massive consumption

Feb 17, 2026

Welcome to my porch~ Take a refreshing gulp of sweet nuance, beads of your existentialist sweat sliding on the glass.

Listen. What is it saying??

I wish to be adored, not just seen. I am the anthem of now.

You’re lying. You want to be praised, not merely observed. That’s why you post SEND. Is that interesting? What good would it be to go unobserved? Perhaps in a voyeuristic sense. But then you would know. Only interesting if you seem unaware.

Dear diary, I am a philosopher because, as every graduate student in philosophy will tell you, they are alive and thinking NOW—they’re not just those slim volumes of old men in your ex-boyfriend’s gym bag.

So trudge along.

One of the strongest lines of poetry in the 21st century is, “I AM A WEAPON of massive consumption.” Anyway, I won’t ever be one of the cool girls whom I love, but I want to think that the club of the Mays and the freaks, who felt my Year of Relax and Relaxation was an ideal vacation, can one day welcome me in.

I only write to her when I feel I have something new to say and haven’t decided against it. not new, but uncommon. insightful, even if the thought has been said a dozen times. It keeps something true. All of this is watered-down Sartre, but there’s some refreshment in knowing it is—

I work in marketing for video games, you see. I can tell you the best plan of action for your game, the flaws, the pros, and the opportunities. I can escalate categories of influencers for you by talent and shine. Some of the games I’ve worked on, you may have even heard about. So I suppose, given my capitalist output, even in a “fun” industry, my internal self is cautious of those motions. too analytical. I get a cold feeling when I stream. When I “show” myself.

I’m actually very funny, and yes, they all say that, but I really am. would be gold on camera… I think my husband has tried to capture this many times, and as soon as I sense the camera, I change; I button up and become unable to act. Maybe it’s a gift.

On my road to recovery—a state of recovery, because I am a treats-motivated proletariat with expert taste (we should all understand this)—I am trying to avoid social media while working in it and needing it as a tool. This is the elegy of the modern writer; even our girl Ottessa Moshfegh is on here.

Then suddenly, like a consumerist mimic, I feel the need to emulate whatever post I see, thinking, “This will get me eyes!” There’s a lot to unpack here because no one owes you attention, and the shiny things—whether they are good or not, entertaining or not (I say this even though you and I wish to have some superiority complex, fellow writer; I know, I know, but respectfully, they’re different things, although they sometimes overlap)—win in the machine. No self-pity here!

But I’m allergic to noise, even the kind that would make it easier for me to SELL SELL SELL. It should be so easy. Build a person. Add in the aesthetics (some of which I already have and love), add in keywords to the machine (Camilla Macaulay, DPS!), and REDUCE, REJOICE. Get brand deals. Invoke a cult of personality, then sell your book. It’s attention!

Even as I write this, I wish to throw up. I’m glad the times are changing again, and people seemingly wish for longer-form content or education. But even then, it feels like a comment for the sake of it. a Blue Lard made of Dumas, Shelley, and Dostoyevsky.

The aesthetics are the mirror!

The shape of these things is the following: leftist, literature, belonging, gothic, gloam, but not overly “pretty”; academic but accessible.

What can I do for my soul and others’? Is it possible to feed both beasts? As the technofeudlists have consumed TikTok, I am “stateless” again. We shall see. Nowhere is safe. What does any of this mean? Maybe the key is in obsession instead. Looking for guidance in the narrow core of art.

She belongs to the algorithm, the pixel whore who reared her, a world of filters, the Big Personality 5, and click-bait. Oh, but at least she has your ears.

A few words from STATE of DECAY, my new novella WIP

I am not a real person, not now. I know it. The Rot knows it. Hasn’t even spoken to me since I got a job. I do not exist until payday. I watch the money accumulate; the stack grow larger. Then, I allow myself to daydream.

also pls pls pre-orders are up for my next book, a short-story collection! THE HAND THAT SPINS YOU ROUND~ a collection of 13 tales from the depths of dream and the summit of nightmare. Coming March 2026!