how to be an internet girl

ritual, routine, repetition

A bold red pimple sits on my cheekbone, pulsing, aching, catching the light in all the wrong ways. I felt it coming days ago, developing underneath layers of my skin, biding time, waiting for the worst moment to surface. My hands itch to prod at it, and I force myself to hold back. The beauty girls say to stop touching your skin, I’ll stop again and again if that guarantees me some sense of perfection. They recommend scrubs and serums, exfoliants and moisturizers, and I mentally catalogue them, tell myself that when my bank account looks less pathetic, I’ll buy them. Even though every part of me screams to stop, I touch the pimple, prod at the skin, and end up staring at myself in the mirror, taking in every flaw and blemish and pore until I no longer recognize my reflection.

Concealer and pressed powder melt into my skin, invisible to the naked eye but standing out to me like a glowing red target. I tell myself I’m not a vain person, but I’m on the verge of a panic attack at the thought of someone noticing a slight unevenness to my complexion. My hair isn’t sitting right, the dark circles under my eyes are less gothic beauty and more depressing, and come to think of it, have I always had that freckle? I want to shut myself in my room, draw the curtains tight, and disappear. I want to stand in front of a crowd, laughing, dancing, the perfect image of a perfect girl.

I went through a phase of sitting in front of my mirror, putting on makeup, and filming myself— quietly performing for my eyes only. The routine was calming: a few moments of shutting my brain off and letting the repetition of motions take over. Naive and hopeful, I repeatedly wondered if I should start sharing the videos, posting them on the internet, and eventually turn myself into some kind of internet girl, but my heart told me not to. The formula seems simple—sit and do my makeup in front of a camera, cultivate an easily marketable persona, cash a check. It had appeal, maybe it still does, but I don’t have the stomach for it. I want the rewards without the potential of a 15-year-old telling me my outfit is basic or my makeup looks dumb—the greatest horror. Self-consciousness is my anchor; the insecurities I haven’t worked through hold me back. I laugh at the irony sometimes. I can spill my guts out through my words, but when it comes down to it, posting a video of myself terrifies me.

It’s easy to think back to the dream careers I’ve had throughout the years— ballerina, lawyer, influencer, fashion journalist, writer— and see I’ve always wanted a spotlight on me. My childhood was spent in dance class, practicing in front of a mirror to perfect the right moves. One leg raised as I balanced on the other, telling myself to remain centered, suck in my stomach, push myself a little further to be better, look better. Recitals came and went, I practiced pirouettes in my kitchen, desperate to earn the coveted front and center spot. I wanted it so badly until I didn’t; the love and passion ebbed, and I was left exhausted, craving solitude, far from the eyeline of the waiting audience.

Everything can be a routine if I want it to be—sitting at the kitchen counter to write, recording myself putting on makeup, walking laps around the neighborhood—carefully embedded into the foundation of my life, bricks pushed to the side to make room for whatever’s next. I cling so tightly to the idea of what a routine does for me that I often misplace the love that brought it there in the first place. Every new venture, small idea, or concept of a plan feels full of endless possibility, it’s something that brings me joy until I have the inevitable thought that people actually could perceive me, have expectations of me, form relationships in their heads with me.

I’m undoubtedly full of dread at the thought of writing turning from a routine I find solace in to one of discomfort. Regardless of what they say, everyone who writes and publicly shares it wants it to be read— longs for someone to click on it and resonate with the words they painstakingly put down. Internet diary, I used to call this, but that’s not quite right. My diary is private; I would rather die than let anyone read it, but this is something I happily sit down and pour my heart into with the knowledge that it’s going to be seen. You know people’s princess, but you don’t know Sarah, even with my tendencies to overshare online. It’s me, yes, but it’s the more interesting version of me, the one I feel most confident letting you get to know. I’ll share my fears and dreams on the broadest scale, but with the minute details, the ones that really do make a difference, I’ll stay reticent because, deep down, I constantly ask myself if it’s worth doing this; opening up, letting people who don’t even know me into my life. And if someday the answer is no, I’d rather exist as an outline than let you have all of me.

Ritualistically, I’ll find the flaws within myself because the reality of someone else discovering them before I can is too much for me to bear. My writing isn’t good enough, my freckles are too prominent, I’m incapable of success in the way I dream, but if it’s coming from me, it has to hurt less, or so I tell myself. I am my own worst enemy, my harshest critic. I hold myself back, lock myself into the cage I’ve created once again; maybe this time it will work. Ironically, despite my efforts against it, I am an internet girl. I curate, perform, profit off of the scraps of myself. The follower count goes up, and I find myself pulling back more. I’ll only show the girl I want seen, the memorable one, I recite to myself. They don’t need to know the rest.

Refresh the stats on my last post, brainstorm ideas to monetize my content; when did this kind of repetition become who I am? I’m 11 again, pirouetting faster, harder until I make myself dizzy, trying to be perfect for a hypothetical audience. I tell myself that this is something that gets me closer to being a capital W writer; it’s something that can become a real job if I want it to be one. I’m terrified of being known but somehow more scared of being uninteresting, fading into the background, destined to be forgotten. I beg myself not to give up, do not jump off the train just because it stopped; stay seated, bide the time, my true destination is coming up.

in case paid subscriptions aren’t something you’re into or can afford on a monthly basis, I have a page where you can buy me a coffee to support me and the projects I’m working on 💘

weekly favorites

• I’ve had the worst cold, so the number one spot goes to the cough drops I’ve been inhaling before every work meeting to avoid the embarrassment of a coughing outburst.

• Upcoming Koz visit

• I finally finished the book that I was reading, so I can finally start Martyr! and I’m sooo excited to read it.

• Photobooth on my laptop

• Mail from Faith

• The bucatini carbonara I made for dinner on Sunday. Paul said it was his favorite thing I’ve cooked.

thank you for reading people’s princess. this publication and this community mean everything to me. you can also find me on instagram @peoples.princess.

with love,

sarah 💘