Fabulousness at the End of the World: REID #236
An expansion on last week's "if ur not their diva, who r u?"
SHORT:
A few weeks ago, my gay senior pen pal asked me to pray he'd get Ozempic—so he could be skinny for Singing in the Rain.
Today he called to say he got the lead. SANS Ozempic.
“They said I have gravitas,” he told me. “Whatever that means.”
MEDIUM:
Rick will be fabulous in Singing in the Rain. And I mean that in the nearly-lost, traditional sense of the word.
Fabulousness used to be a rare treat: a flash of pink on the subway. A wedding. A school play. Someone’s grandma with a big floppy hat.
Now everyone’s fabulous all the time.
You sneeze and it’s “Bless you, diva!” Parallel park? “Slay, icon!”
I opened the fridge and it yelled, “Yaaas cold brew!”
I took out the trash and it said, “You dropped this, queen.” It was a banana peel.
LONG:
A few months ago, I invented a pose called “the fabulous hand.” Arm up, little smile, ta-da—you’re fabulous. People eat it up. Which makes sense. It’s 2025. Fabulousness is everything. If you’re not fabulous, you’re failing.
We’ve gone from celebration to self-spectacle. From affirming each other’s humanity to performing it—on loop, with bright yellow captions and bonus content. It’s easier to call someone “mother” than to ask how they’re doing. So we beat on, fabulous against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the feed.
And the feed loves it. Affirmation is fast, addictive, and algorithm-approved. Doesn’t matter if it’s “YOU ATE” or “YOU’RE CANCELLED”—either way, the algorithm wins. And tech companies cash in. You’re doing unpaid labor for the machine.
If you perform it all well enough? Someone might pay you to keep going. I’ve helped make that happen1. Tens of thousands of dollars for a single video—money that could buy someone six months to breathe or invest in something slower. But most of the time, it just buys more performance. Another post to keep numbers up.
Which I get. Visibility is intoxicating. As a teenager, I spent my days diving off a 33-foot platform for the approval of five sunburned men in khakis who hadn’t touched water since the Reagan era. Every dive asked: Do I deserve love? Every splash answered: Maybe. …I still feel like I’m up on that tower.
The world is on fire. Sometimes the only thing between you and collapse is a stranger commenting “YOU ATE.” I try to remind myself that I’d rather be nourished than win a 24/7 eating contest. And yet, when I try to log off, slow down, or opt out—I feel invisible. Like I’ve failed. Given up on myself. It’s not just insecurity, it’s existential.
We’re told that if we’re fabulous enough, for long enough, someone will eventually hand us our real life back. But I don’t think that life ever shows up—not if staying alive means updating your story every 24 hours. The more we brand ourselves, the more we forget we’re people. And when everyone’s busy telling their story for likes, no one’s organizing toward a future. No one’s building anything real.
Except Rick.
Who got cast without Ozempic. Without experience. And without a working definition of gravitas (though he’s pretty sure it involves wearing a hat with confidence).
And who, in just a few weeks, will be absolutely tearing it up onstage at the senior center—for no pay, no clout, and, if last year’s Music Man is any indication, a scattered audience of family members and friends who can’t hear over the HVAC unit.
C U Next Tuesday.
Thank you for subscribing to this newsletter. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s not [like when people slip on ice].
If this is your first time reading, pls check out the archives.
Sincerely,
Reid Pope
Snack Of The Week: the frozen chocolate covered strawberries and bananas from Trader Joes that our cat sitter left in the fridge.
At my day job
Really good one, you ate
I really enjoyed this one! Funny and thoughtful.