I’m notoriously superstitious, and I’m always begging people to please, please, please avoid telling me about their superstitions, because I will inevitably add them to my own endless list. Some of it comes from a Catholic upbringing. Believing in woo woo, obsessively checking your co-star app, pulling out a tarot deck to finish off a bottle of wine at the end of dinner or hiring Etsy witches might seem blasphemous, but growing up religious in an environment where the rituals of Catholicism were imbued into my routine, primed me for my superstitious antics. I haven’t given anything up for Lent in recent years, but I still always make the sign of the cross whenever I step into a church. I avoid going in during mass, preferring to sit at the back and take in the silence, comforted by feeling small under high Gothic arches, the familiar scent of oak and incense. At the beginning of the month, I had a long layover in New York. I had recently gotten news of a friend’s parent having health issues, my mom had projects up in the air, and another friend was waiting to hear back from a job. Naturally, I marched down Fifth Avenue and dipped into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a quick one-on-one with the big guy.

On New Year’s Eve, I rinse my body with saltwater to wash away bad energy. If a dip in the ocean on the last day of the year isn’t an option, I’ll add a couple of teaspoons of salt to a mug, bring it into the shower with me and awkwardly tip it over my head. I always wear white, a Brazilian custom inherited from Umbanda and Candomblé, afro-Brazilian religions whose influence permeates many traditions. Different colours of underwear also promise different things: red for love, yellow for money, green for luck, though I’m not sure where those came from. My hardest year to date was prefaced by a black minidress on New Year’s. Coincidence? Maybe, but I wouldn’t risk it again. This January, I wore white and tied a thick red cotton string to my wrist ahead of the Year of the Horse for prosperity.

My dad might be the only person I know who can rival my level of superstition. My mother, one of the most logical and level-headed people I know, still managed to absorb some of it via osmosis over the course of a twenty-five-year-long marriage. She’ll never walk under a staircase, and always wears white on Fridays. I’m obsessive about hats on the bed and upside-down shoes. The easiest way to get me to do something is to tell me it’s good luck! I’m surprisingly fond of black cats, and have no particular aversion to the number thirteen, though I had something important coming up and scheduled it for the fourteenth lest we tempt fate.

Turns out you CAN have it all!

I don’t discriminate. When it comes to good luck, I appeal to every deity; the contents of my bag and bedside table will tell you that much. Rosaries blessed in the Vatican, a Bhutanese prayer wheel, a shamrock tucked inside an envelope, picked on a sunny day in the middle of nowhere in Ireland. A small army of darumas, Japanese wishing dolls, some missing an eye. Buddhist scrolls, a small woven bag filled with Guatemalan worry dolls, a ceramic scarab given to me by the man behind the counter in a spice shop in the Souk in Aswan, a plastic figurine I bit into whilst devouring a Galette de Rois, an olivewood cross gifted by a Franciscan Friar with whom I beefed with and subsequently befriended over a summer in Florence spent learning Italian. A friend once told me she feels very safe travelling with me; my collection of good-luck charms means no flight I’m on is going down.

God, the universe, delusion, call it what you want

I used to say I grew up Culturally Catholic. I wasn’t super religious; Sunday school was first and foremost a social place. My relationship with religion has ebbed and flowed over the years, but my faith in something has always been present. It was a comforting thought, the idea that there were things beyond my control. Letting go was an exercise in restraint for a compulsive control freak. Letting things play out, hoping that it will all make sense in the long run. I’m a big believer. I believe in signs and fate and kismet and karma. I’m forever entangled in a dance with the universe, a tango between us, a healthy mix of letting things happen and nudging things along.

I’ll do everything in my power to optimise luck. Knocking on wood and crossing fingers has become an involuntary reflex. I try to give everything meaning, even though I know some things can’t be explained. This past weekend, I had friends visiting and got to redistribute my wealth of luck as I handed out free drinks I’d gotten by chance. Whenever something good happens, I tend to see it as good Karma. Finding money on the floor, the barista accidentally making your drink hot instead of iced and then letting you have both, the bartender mishearing and handing you a free pint, an airline upgrade, a complimentary pastry because the cashier was in a good mood. I told my friend about my theory, and she quickly disagreed. She said that believing good things happen to people who do good means that if something bad happens to you, it’s the consequence of negative actions. As a chronic optimist, I’ll be charmed by lucky coincidences, but refuse to believe I’m being punished when I’ve been dreaming of a latte and wake up to find out that my milk has soured and the shops are closed.

Pavlov-ing the universe into making you lucky

Kismet, serendipity, luck, chance, all firmly entrenched in my personal lexicon. Through positive reinforcement, I have conditioned the higher powers to keep sending good things my way. I’ve turned strangers into friends after bonding over our mutual love of indoor cycling in the queue outside a club, or dishing out recommendations to a girl picking a bookseller’s brain. I’ve met authors I admired at parties, and since last names were not exchanged, I failed to connect the dots, and proceeded to send them gushy texts telling them how much I love their work once I got home and realised who I was talking to for most of the night. I make a point of reaching out and am a notorious DM warrior. I believe enthusiasm is rewarded. At the Oscars red carpet, Ethan Hawke was interviewed by Amelia Dimoldenberg, and the video has been all over my social media feeds. On being asked for advice for people dealing with unrequited love, he says the one who’s in love always wins. The sentiment resonated, and the clip went viral. Whilst most people reflected on the experience of romantic love, I believe the statement applies to all areas of life. Loving your friends, your work, having zest for life makes it worth living. The same friend told me maybe I’m just luckier than most, that luck is evenly distributed amongst the population, and I just happen to be on the far end of the bell curve. I’m not sure if I believe some people are luckier than others; talking about privilege here would be a different conversation entirely. I’m considering the little things: your favourite chocolate being on sale, spotting a double rainbow, finding the book you’ve been meaning to read for a pound at a charity shop, running into a friend you haven’t seen in ages on a day you’re both free and can spend the afternoon catching up. Lucky moments seem to show up more and more once you start looking for them.

Party Prep

Whilst some of my friends started warming up for Carnaval on the first weekend of January, I was braving an unexpected snowstorm that cast a white cover over many major European cities. I stifled my FOMO with the knowledge that in a few weeks I’d be joining them on the streets of Rio. My actual prep started two weeks before Carnaval when I got to Brazil. My brother’s godmother (whom I also call Dinda because I love her dearly and am a little greedy) is a stylist for TV Globo, Brazil’s largest TV network. My mother and I joined her at Saara, a street market in the centre of Rio, where you can find anything and everything, and Dinda Teresa was our guide and Carnaval fairy godmother all in one. The only thing I’d packed for Carnaval was a pair of beat-up Converse, so I loaded my basket up with sparkly tops, hot pants, fishnets in every colour of the rainbow, as well as headbands and feathers and loud earrings to distract from my lack of outfit planning. Knowing the temperatures could reach 40 degrees, I took less-is-more quite literally, and kept my clothing minimal as a survival strategy.

Rules to Live By and the Cardinal Sins of Carnaval

Listen, I don’t claim to be an expert here. Whilst I was born in Brazil, and will tell people I’m almost carioca thanks to my entire extended family being from Rio and Summers spent at the beach, I moved abroad as a child, and this was my first proper time back for Carnaval. I had the perfect week, but I wouldn’t chalk it all up to beginner’s luck: I listened to those who were older and wiser and learned from their mistakes. In case you’re thinking of going, these are the dos and don’ts in my book

Do

• Wear comfortable shoes → I don’t care if you’re Carrie Bradshaw herself, this is not the time for heels (you’ll be standing all day and doing upwards of 20,000 steps) or your new Havaianas (the ground is covered in questionable fluids and someone will undoubtedly step on your feet)

• Eat a proper breakfast → you’ll be drinking all day every day for four days straight. As someone who has run a marathon before, let me tell you, this was harder. Carnaval is an extreme sport, so act like an athlete. A decent meal is not a guarantee during the day (though I’d recommend taking a proper lunch break, avoiding fried foods and trying to get a healthy dose of carbs, protein and fibre in at dinner), so your best bet is making sure you eat enough before you leave the house to get you through the day. My friend’s go-to was the same thing she always eats before a long run. I was making eggs and a green juice at 5 AM. Again, this is not for the weak.

• Party responsibly → this is a marathon, not a sprint, you don’t want to collapse on Day 1 and end up DNFing the weekend. Make sure you’re having fun, and that everyone with you can enjoy themselves. Drink water, wear sunscreen, bring a fan and try to get out of the sun for a little bit.

• Get up early → the best blocos are the early morning ones (in my opinion). Cariocas are always late for everything, but Carnaval is the only time of year when they’re early. It’s not as hot, people haven’t been drinking all day, and you can get closer to the musicians.

• Bring cash → the only thing I didn’t do and wish I did. Having to faff around with a phone or a card after three drinks is not fun. I only brought one card and decreased the spending limit in case I lost it, but cash would have made things easier.

• Know when to leave → this is an art year-round, but especially during Carnaval, the vibes can change very quickly. I felt very safe the entire time, and most of the people I know who have had bad experiences all said they should have left earlier. Depending on where you are in the city, you don’t want to stick around after the blocos are over or once it gets dark.

• Go with the flow → plan your first bloco of the day and then see where the day takes you. You might bump into people you know or make new friends along the way. This is not the time to stress about an itinerary.

Don’t

• Keep your phone in your pocket or bag → if you have a Celular do Bandido even better, leave the real one at home. There’s a lot of petty theft in crowded areas, so a money belt inside your clothes is the best bet for your phone, credit card and ID. Use it to call your Uber, take the occasional photo and use your bag for things like sunscreen, gum, and a fan.

• Meet your friends there → you can’t and you won’t. There are too many people, meet at the metro or go together.

• Make prolonged eye contact with someone you don’t want to kiss → people have told me I have no game, and whilst I normally wouldn’t disagree, my Carnaval alter ego was pulling left, right and centre. I take little credit; everyone is a little slutty this time of year, and making eye contact and raising your eyebrows is sufifcient invitation.

• Do late nights → my one exception for this is if you’re going to Sapucaí. There are loads of parties during Carnaval, but I’d argue the best experiences are during the day on the streets. You can club year-round, but Carnaval de Rua only happens once a year. The key to surviving all four days is making sure you’re getting enough sleep.

• Leave anyone behind → safety is key: arrive together, leave together. Nobody does anything alone; you’ll lose them in the crowd. If you’re in a big group, adopt a buddy system.

Blocos — glitter, sweat, singing crowds and kissing all the time

These are moving street parties; there’s one for every taste. Big ones, little ones, techno ones, jazzy ones. My favourite was Céu na Terra in Santa Teresa, and it was 1000% worth getting up at 5 am for. Boi Tolo was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before (don’t believe me? Read all about it in The New York Times). If you hate crowds, sweating, and getting up early, then don’t bother, but if you can handle those with a smile on your face (and maybe some Samba at your feet thanks to the drink in your hand), then you’re in for the experience of a lifetime. If you’re lucky enough to find a friend who matches your vibes, hold on to them (a special thanks to Ju, Lau and my CarnaSoulmate Lu).

Sapucaí — Watching the sunrise at the Apoteose is a religious experience

For the people who were obsessed with the movie Rio, this is a must. I grew up watching the desfiles (parades) on TV, but seeing it up close is an entirely different experience. I’ve always had a huge appreciation for Brazilian culture, and am especially grateful to my mom, who made sure to keep that alive even after we moved abroad. In what has been described as the biggest spectacle on earth, twelve Escolas de Samba create a parade around honouring a specific theme or historical figure. Portela and Mangueira are my mom and dad’s favourites, respectively, and also the most decorated schools. I was lucky enough to see them both, along with Imperatriz and Acadêmicos de Niteroi, on Sunday night. I watched the cars and the dancers and sang along with the band into the wee hours of the night, and after the last group had made its way across the Sambodromo, I jumped the fence along with thousands of other people to follow them and watch the sunrise after what I’m sure will go down as one of the best days of my life

Glossary

Carioca — someone from the city of Rio de Janeiro (different from Fluminense, which is someone from the state of the same name)

Celular do Bandido — the thief’s phone, AKA the phone you bring out with you. Pull out your retired, cracked iPhone 7, delete all banking apps and make sure to give your friends your burner number. Tell everyone the bad camera quality adds to the aesthetic.

The best thing I’ve ever gotten that started with a DM

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’ve just gotten back to London after being away for two months. I’ve got a week in the city before I jet off again, and I think most sane people would use this time to rest, put their lives back in order, and enjoy the silence that is only possible in an empty apartment. Instead, I’m unpacking as quickly as I can, grabbing my wallet, computer and a toothbrush on my way out the door to head over to my friend’s house. I’ve spoken about Giorgia before, how her presence has an uncanny ability to regulate my nervous system and how our friendship makes me believe in a higher power. Gio and I actually met several years ago in Brussels, where we went to the same school. We were in adjacent social circles and were friendly enough, but once she moved away for high school, we lost touch. A couple of years later, I started university and moved into halls in an apocalyptic landscape. It was 2020, and my dreams of getting messy drunk and making lifelong friends during freshers’ week had been promptly crushed. Instead, I moved in after a two-week government-mandated quarantine, making conversation with the security guards because they were the only people around. One geo-tagged Instagram story later, and Giorgia was the one sliding into my DMs. As luck would have it, her room was only one courtyard away. Whilst I now have little to no reservations about reaching out to people, my seventeen-year-old self, who was brand new to the city, was incredibly grateful. That one interaction went on to become one of the most meaningful relationships that carried me into adulthood.

In my attempt to maximise our time together for the brief week I was back in London, I schlepped over to her house on a Sunday night, with the promise of a work-from-home Monday that had me counting down the days to be back in the city. I slipped into the comfort of familiarity, pulling out my favourite sweatpants from her dresser and getting started on dinner as we caught up on the past couple of months. I felt at home looping in her housemates. I asked Irene about her work crush and put my life in Ines’ hands as I sat on a chair in her room, towels lining the floor as she chopped off as much hair as she deemed fit1. Oh my god, look how far we’ve come, *snip snip*, five years ago I barely knew you, and now you’re cutting my hair! As she snipped my hair away, I considered my luck that Giorgia swiped up on my story all those years ago.

With the reinforcement that came from that initial success story, I’ve continuously used the DMs to fan the flames of a budding friendship. Last May, I saw loads of people I was peripherally aware of and friendly with at a High School reunion. Once we’d covered the how have you been and what have you been up to, I found myself deep in conversation, laughing till my stomach hurt and asking myself why did it take me so long to properly speak to you? On my way back to London, I scrolled through my contacts, mentally drafting my [probably too] earnest it was SO nice to see you message. Realising I never texted any of these people in school, I switched over to Instagram, feeling awkward and a little dude-y but pressing send nonetheless. I’ve since had coffee and dinner and drinks to properly catch up with them, though we’ve graduated to texting.

Ask, and You Shall Receive

My first DM crusade came in the first term of my Master’s programme. Previously a Literature student, I was unfamiliar with the struggle of having to beg everyone in your life to fill out a questionnaire so you can pass your Research Methods required credit. As my group tried, and mostly failed, to gather enough primary data on the eating and shopping habits of Brazilian consumers, I realised I had no other option but to personally reach out not only to family and friends, but also to everyone I still followed from my elementary school. I felt awkward messaging these people whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in years, and made sure to start off by reminding them how we knew each other, because I was pretty sure many of them had no idea who I was. I quickly got over all of that once the responses started rolling in, and was delighted to catch up with my brother’s childhood friends who once practically lived in our house and the girls I hadn’t seen since our sandbox days.

Though I [re]encountered my best friend thanks to a DM, in true post-grad unemployment fashion, I really honed the skill in the process of trying to find a job and life purpose. I reached out to family friends and Instagram mutuals and strangers on LinkedIn, desperate for some direction. I became an expert on the coffee chat,2 and my calendar, which was once littered with lectures and sports nights and drinks with my girlfriends, became my LinkedIn feed come to life. I had always been apprehensive about networking; it felt too transactional, and I almost always felt inadequate, too inexperienced to bring anything of value to the table. I physically cringed attempting to type out dear network posts, sick with inauthenticity, though I knew my confessional writing had no place in the corporate sphere. Slowly, I realised that it wasn’t all that scary or all that bad. I’ve always been chatty, and I’m naturally curious, so sitting down with people from a variety of industries and going down the rabbit hole of all of the careers I was considering was surprisingly enjoyable. When I started flirting with a more creative line of work, the personal and professional lines started to blur. I asked a friend in the industry for career advice over dinner and ended up pitching her the next morning. I liked someone’s work and let them know, and found myself laughing at their stories both in writing and over drinks.

In Defence of Enthusiasm and the Parasocial Relationship

I’ll be the first person to admit that the internet is a wild and weird place. You won’t find me restacking those Substack feels like this posts with aesthetically pleasing photos of girls giggling at a sleepover or frolicking in the wild. I’ve fallen victim to wasting the day away switching my attention from a medium screen propped up on my lap to the tiny screen denting my pinkie, and the term enshitification has entered my personal lexicon. Still, I occasionally fall into a parasocial relationship. When I was younger, it was the beauty vloggers who helped me perfect my winged eyeliner, their big sister advice peppered in the background of my teenage years. In later years, I binged literary nonfiction, becoming enamoured with the voices of Nora Ephron, Joan Didion, Eve Babitz and Elizabeth Wurtzel, their words working overtime at the back of my head. I rationed their works, knowing there was no more coming and making sure I read responsibly. When I ventured over to Substack last year, I was quickly drawn to the diaristic confessions that thrive on this platform. I had been an avid reader of Man Repeller, Into the Gloss and Camille Over the Rainbow back in the day. , Emily Weiss and had distinct voices; I could spot their writing without needing to check the byline. Slowly, the same thing started happening here, the same writers popping up on my feed as I slowly curated my can’t-miss weekly reads. I felt self-conscious texting the first writer I admired. It’s one thing to do the whole mutually liking each other’s Instagram stories and another thing entirely to message them out of the blue. My friend Zee, with her endless wisdom, nudged me on. Enthusiasm is a good thing; don’t feel bad about it. As I met up with more people I admired, my impostor syndrome dwindled, though never completely disappearing, because I thought these girls were so cool and talented, and I was just happy to be there. I started seeing the benefits of having people who were doing the same thing, just at a larger scale. I once again found myself asking for advice.

2026 is the Year of Delusion

Being delusional used to be a joke; we’re so delulu you’d say rolling your eyes, laughing over cappuccinos with a friend as you dissect your situationship’s latest text or convince yourselves the universe is actively putting your crush at every bar you walk into. I always had my delusional moments, but prided myself on having at least one foot planted firmly on the ground at all times. As my life turned upside down after graduating, and I had no idea where to go next, a canonical event for most twenty-somethings, I’m told, I started wearing delusion as a badge of honour. Instead of asking myself why? I’d wonder why not? I still haven’t reached that state of unadulterated confidence that everything will work out, but I’m choosing to trust the process. I’ve spent the past year asking people of all walks of life for advice, and while I lack any real expertise (on anything besides dating and looking for a job), I’m still passing on some wisdom: you should be in everyone’s DMs.

What I’m reading:

• Because 2026 is the year of fun:

  • ’s Niche Internet Crush series is a new and delightful discovery (I love it just as much as ’s Cheat Sheets, but people are sick of me recommending it) - I miss reading about celebrities’ makeup bags and medicine cabinets in Into the Gloss

  • ’s You found it cringe, I found it fun is my new life philosophy

  • ’s help! i want to be Rachel Sennott! and ’s My Debilitating Obsession With My Crush’s Ex-Girlfriend on were both hysterical and relatable reads

• Because I still think it’s resolution season:

  • ’s The Case for a Single New Year’s Resolution and ’s my new year’s resolution is to be messy

• Because other people also think you should be delusional:

  • I recently watched read what would you do if you believed in yourself more? at a event and re-read it on the tube home. ’s Flirtation, Delusion, Abundance gives you the perfect words of affirmation to start the year.

• And if you’re looking for my favourite diaristic pieces on Substack…

  • no one does it better than , I recently loved I am not sexy right now, sauna romance is only real if you bring a swimsuit, and ayahuasca might be in my future and Partying in Your Hometown Means Being 16 Again, Drinking Cheap Vodka, and Hoping Your Childhood Crush Notices You, which she wrote for

Izzy and I bonded over our shared love of the hot girl bible, Happy Hour by on the first night we met (I’m a loyal reader of and slid into her DMs when I realised we’d be at the same event), and I’m obsessed with her list of books where women have FUN, so she was the first person that came to mind when I was trying to come up with literary hot girls to dish out book recommendations.

Something I’m realising as I get older is that one of the hottest things you can be is funny. Also, that funny books are often denigrated as being less literary or less worthy or less impressive than sad books. To that I say: having a sense of humour in this world is both an act of moral strength and a deeply sexy quality! Books about funny broads (and even funny gentlemen – yes they exist!!) are therefore very necessary in the literary diet of a hot girl. I am constantly recommending, for this reason, Anita Loos’ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, which is one of the maddest (in the most British sense of the word) books I have ever read and also one of the most delightful: you could swallow it down in a sitting over a couple of French 75s and call it a party. I am also deeply in love with Elaine Dundy’s novels The Old Man & Me and The Dud Avocado – the latter is much funnier and the former leans more towards black comedy. And a special mention to the series I pick up when I am very sad and desperately to laugh out loud: P. G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves novels (which also happen to make WONDERFUL post-break-up reads – no romance, just life-affirming silliness).

This isn’t to say I don’t love an intense novel which makes me cry and think and brood. The first book to make me cry in 2024 was Set My Heart On Fire by Izumi Suzuki, which I picked up in a bookstore in NYC and read it in the bath at The Public, a nicely melancholic but actually quite nice setting in which to devour this weird, dirty, fizzing, erotic, dizzying novel about a young woman in the underground music scene in 1970s Tokyo. I also cried on the tube reading two James Baldwin novels this year: Giovanni’s Room and If Beale Street Could Talk. Because you know what else is hot? Being moved to tears by great art!

I have been a long-time reader of and in the midst of a career crisis, I slid into Madison’s LinkedIn DMs to ask for advice (if you learn anything from this piece, it’s that you should be in everyone’s DMs in 2026). Once again, I regained my faith in humanity as we performed time-zone gymnastics and got on a call where we bonded over our childhoods spent in dance studios, so I was obviously back in her DMs when I started working on this piece.

Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin - I dove into James Baldwin’s work for the first time this year, and Giovanni’s Room was such a great place to start. It’s such a rich exploration of love, internalized prejudice, and what you love about someone being the exact thing that causes you to resent them. I’ve never read a book that’s managed to articulate the feeling of release and anxiety that comes from someone holding a mirror too close to your face. Regardless of how deeply we try to suppress our true selves, elements always have a way of bubbling back to the surface. The last scene of this book left me so speechless, I had to put the book down and take a lap around the room.

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver - Demon Copperhead is a modern retelling of Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, set in a working class community in the Appalachian Mountains in the late 90s and early aughts. Resurrecting a beloved novel like Copperfield doesn’t come without controversy, but I adored living in this book’s universe, narrated by a hilarious, thoughtful, horny, comic-book-obsessed teenage boy protagonist. This book confronts weighty topics like opioid addiction, rural poverty, and the gaps in American social services, while maintaining a heart and a sense of humour. Laughs, tears, sentiment, it’s all there.

The Bee Sting by Paul Murray - The Bee Stingfollows an Irish family experiencing financial and interpersonal crises following the 2008 recession. The book switches perspectives between all four members of the family: a teenage daughter, a preteen son, and a middle-aged mother and father. Murray does such a great job inciting empathy for each of these deeply flawed characters, even developing distinct writing styles for each of their inner monologues. The book is deeply emotional and hilarious and builds to a satisfying conclusion, in which all four storylines converge unexpectedly. I also loved watching Dua Lipa’s interview with the author after reading it!

Bea Isaacson

When I first met Bea, she was wearing a fur coat, impossibly low-waisted jeans and her eyeliner smudged under her eyes in a way that made her look incredibly cool (and makes mere mortals look sleep-deprived and hungover). She radiates hot girl energy, and she’s yet to let me down with her reading recommendation, so I figured I’d redistribute the wealth.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac - OMG I’m so sorry. It’s four hundred pages of some of the most indulgent prose of the last century. Women exist within a dogmatic commitment to the Madonna Whore complex, a product of its time, homophobic and racist slurs are thrown around with abundance. Often nothing really happens. As Paris Geller puts it: edit, man, edit. And yet On The Road really is as madly brilliant as its legacy dictates. Something of a counterculture bible, this madcap assortment of bohemian students race across the vast American cities and plains, under the white picket fences of its postwar zeitgeist, and earnestly pledge themselves to a hedonist mandate of dancing and drinking and drugs and jazz and everything that falls in between the cracks of a law-abiding life. Of course it comes with its moments of pathos. But even when the characters are not actually at a party - Kerouac pens probably the best party scenes I’ve ever read, no doubt aided by his copious drug taking when writing - with its aching commitment to freedom and nihilism, the party spirit pulses throughout the novel like circulation of red, hot, All-American blood.

Elle’s has something for everyone, including comforting nostalgia via teenage-magazine-esque quizzes and some of my favourite thought-provoking though never pretentious pieces here, including let’s be snobs again, and in the club table economy, women are the currency. Scrolling through her archive is the digital equivalent of finding your favourite lip gloss at the bottom of the bag you never cleared out and haven’t worn for the past six months—a true delight.

Laughable Loves by Milan Kundera - Laughable Loves is a collection of seven short stories which are comedic, tragic, and erotic (sometimes separately, and sometimes all at once). If you haven’t read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, that should be your first Kundera, but if you’re looking for something genuinely funny, profound, and easy to read on the train, Laughable Loves is the one.

Female Friends by Fay Weldon - Criminally underrated by younger readers into feminist literature, Female Friends follows three friends, Marjorie, Grace, and Chloe, through post-war British society. All Fay Weldon has the ability to make you feel unbearably seen, but Female Friends is the best combination of funny, poignant, and political without bonking you over the head with obvious ‘social commentary’.

Less Than Zero by Brett Easton Ellis - Read with caution, as with all of Ellis’ works, but he really started his career with his best. Many 2000s novels about vacant rich kids doing horrible things are poor emulations of this one, and it’s a masterclass in creating unease. The LA wind blowing through Less Than Zero is the same one whistling in much of Joan Didion’s work, and Ellis’s gross descriptions of heinous acts will appeal to readers of Ottessa Moshfegh, Irvine Welsh, John Waters, and the like.

Leah writes and has impeccable taste in films. She has a recommendation for every mood and situation, and I’ve enjoyed all of her suggestions so far, so I figured I could trust her taste in other mediums as well.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini1 - I have read this book only once, for it wrecked me all those years ago so much so that picking it up again was met with unwavering trepidation, but I would still not hesitate to call this my favourite book of all time. This is a heartbreaking tale not all that untrue which follows two Afghani women, Miriam and Laila, who must live their lives in line with the Taliban’s rule. Despite there being 20 years between them, they are united by the cruel Rasheed and must adapt to a life with one another in it. Hossein’s writing is arresting, penning the most tragic of moments with words that can still manage to inspire levity and awe. I looked back over some of my favourite quotes from this novel and couldn’t help but cry, feeling just as impacted as I did when I first read my mother’s copy of this which she gave to me 5 years ago. Sometimes it takes a book like this that truly solidifies the idea that there is nothing more enduring, more indestructible than the human spirit, even when life has dealt you an awful hand.

Evenings and Weekends by Oisín McKenna - As a Dubliner in London, I couldn’t help but feel that I was one of the background characters in this stunning debut novel from Oisín McKenna. This read features a well executed ensemble narrative, which helps you sink your teeth into the intertwining stories set to the backdrop of a very realistic London. Oh, and there’s a whale too. I actually listened to the audiobook of this, which was my first foray into listening to a story on my walks around the park or on my way home from work. It added another layer to my experience of the book that made it even more enjoyable for me, plus the fact that the narrator is brilliant. This one is messy, raw and gritty in the way the life truly is - which made this so all consuming of a read, what more could you ask for?

The ultimate hot girl final boss. Happy Hour is every hot girl’s Bible; I’m due for my yearly re-read. I’ve gifted it more times than I can count, and it’s usually the first thing I recommend when I meet someone new. I once again did some DM sliding (it’s an art) and was over the moon when Marlowe sent over her recommended titles. Consider this required reading to tide you over until her next novel, Petty Intrigues, comes out next year.

If Only by Vigdis Hjorth - This novel is for those who have purposely invited someone to ruin their life. It’s a book of discord and obsession, which sometimes we choose for relationships because we think that’s where we’ll find the most growth. This book is a Scorpio in the worst way.

The Old Man and Me by Elaine Dundy - Everyone always recommends reading The Dud Avocado by Dundy, but out of the two, this one is my favourite. I’m realizing that I’m recommending books that use men as levers for personal growth and torture. This was a theme for 2025.

Life with Picasso by Francoise Gilot - I listen to biographies of artists constantly. Francoise Gilot was one of Picasso’s long term partners. By listening to biographies of 20th-century figures, I can now map out the social circles of groups like the Surrealists or Modernists. Francoise was really from the school of hard knocks, never letting Picasso destroy her like he did to many of his partners. As I listened I started to call my friends to exclaim, “He acts like Picasso but he just isn’t Picasso!”

If you made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed this piece! It was one of my favourites to put together, and though there was very little writing on my end, I am honoured and excited to share recommendations from some of my favourite literary voices. If you liked this piece, tell a friend! If you’re not already subscribed, consider dropping your email below (it’s fun! it’s free!), and if you want some of my book recommendations, check out some of my other pieces!

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My (Reading) Year in Numbers

I read 51 books this year, totalling up to 16,512 pages. If I’m being completely honest I’ll probably squeeze one more in before the 31st because I like the idea of reading one book for every week of the year. Of those 51 titles, 63% were written by women and 37% were written by men. I love reading for escape, so it makes sense that 84% of the books I read this year were works of fiction, with 37 novels, 3 novellas and 3 short story collections. Of the 8 nonfiction titles, 5 were memoirs. The longest book I read this year was The Fragile Threads of Power with 652 pages, and the shortest one was Animal Farm with 95 pages. The oldest title was White Nights, which came out in 1848, and the newest ones were Half His Age and Lost Lambs, which are both coming out in the first quarter of 2026. I’m apparently a fan of current works, as 65% of the books I read this year came out in the 21st century, with the 20th century lagging behind at 31% and the 19th century barely entering the chat with 4%. My most read authors were Emily Henry and V.E. Schwab, with 5 books each, with Elena Ferrante right behind with 4 books (the Neapolitan Novels, which kicked off my 2025 reading).

What I Think You Should Read in 2026

If you’re searching for eloquent book reviews, you’ll probably be disappointed, but if you’re looking to have the experience of being my friend (that I’ve known since childhood or just met in line for the bar) and having me rattle off recommendations based on your aura, outfit, birth chart or most recent breakup, you’ll be delighted!

To Laugh

• Happy Hour by

  • I re-read this every year, it’s the Hot Girl bible.

• Lost Lambs by Cash

  • The Virgin Suicides, but funnier, scratch the suicides and add conspiracy theories and backyard bombs, I was cackling in public. Will be out in February 2026.

To Read in One Sitting

• Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger

  • Precocious teen representation, my favourite work by Salinger and a skinny read for long(ish) train rides or the liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s.

• Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan

  • If you want to feel bad about your writing, remember an eighteen-year-old wrote this.

• Half His Age by Jenette McCurdy

  • I’ve been a fan of Jenette’s writing since her memoir, I’m Glad My Mom Died, hit the shelves, so I was super excited to get an early copy of her first novel. Whilst it’s not a slim read like the rest of the titles in this category, I couldn’t put it down. Will be out January 20th, 2026.

To Escape

• The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

  • This book is old news, but the news hadn’t gotten to me. I love a mystery and ate this up over a Sunday I spent in bed nursing a hangover. Do not start if you have an early morning lined up. I didn’t go to sleep until I finished it.

• The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman

  • It’s a best seller for a reason. I volunteered at a retirement home throughout High School, and unfortunately (or fortunately?), there was no murder mystery afoot. I haven’t gotten around to watching the Netflix adaptation, but I’m sure it won’t disappoint (I’ve got an age-inappropriate crush on Pierce Brosnan).

• All The President’s Men by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein

  • I was reading this on a trip with my mom and told her I thought Bob Woodward was very hot. She informed me that the picture on the cover was from the film adaptation and that I was in fact thirsting over a young Robert Redford. We all make mistakes. I also love the fact that Carl Bernstein and Nora Ephron had the same hair for a good chunk of their marriage.

    

To Learn

• On Writing by Stephen King

  • Part-memoir part-writing 101, if nothing else this will light a fire under your ass and make you pick up a pen.

• Talking to My Daughter by Yanis Varoufakis

  • Capitalism for Dummies, I love being spoon-fed economic concepts. If you’re trying to become more financially literate in 2026, start here.

To Bring Up in Therapy

• The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

  • I say I don’t want to date someone in the industry (creatives can be a lot, there’s only room for so much diva energy in a relationship) and that I don’t want to be codependent but then I’m reminded of the Didion-Dunne relationship and I take it all back. Perfect for those who relish in masochism (and whilst you’re at it, pick up Just Kids by if you haven’t already)

• The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

  • I started antidepressants right after I finished reading this (for unrelated reasons), but you can probably guess that I had quite the reading experience, trully got the maximum Plath effect, did not feel the urge to read her unabridged journals after my mental state improved.

• Stoner by John Edward Williams

  • My friend told me this was his favourite book, and I always find that reading people’s favourite books gives you unprecedented access to their psyche (I also had a slight crush on him at the time). After finishing it I was slightly concerned for his wellbeing. There’s nothing as depressing or scary (for someone in their early twenties at least) as unfufilled potential.

To Feel Like a Kid Again

• Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins

  • If the Hunger Games series has 1000 fans, I’m one of them. If it has one fan, it’s me. If it has no fans, I’m dead. I unironically defend Catching Fire as one of the best films of the 21st century and the entire book series as modern classics that should be taught in schools. I felt like a middle schooler again staying up until 4AM to finish this.

• The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

  • I got a gorgeous edition as a gift from my brother with illustrations by Chris Riddell. This was such a fun read and a guaranteed way to get out of a reading slump. I’m slowly making my way through the entire series, using it as the ideal palette cleanser in between heavier reads.

Honourable Substack Mentions

I’m nothing if not consistent

• This year, I also gifted myself a paid subscription (à la Carrie Bradshaw buying Vogue instead of dinner because it fed me more) and read every single dispatch that landed in my inbox (because I’m all about getting my money’s worth).

• I also read every single one of ’s Cheat Sheets.

Writers on Writers

• For book recommendations, I loved ’s The Best Books on Writing and ’s books where women have FUN.

Reads with a lasting effect

• Anything from reminded me to not take life too seriously and to have a lot of fun along the way.

• ’s We Should All Talk to Strangers is a piece that I revisit on a monthly basis and reminds me of the best parts of being human. Ice Cream Innocence has inspired me to go out for ice cream every week (if you’re looking for me at any given moment, there’s always a 30% chance I’m demolishing a coupe of Salted Blueberry Ricotta and whatever seasonal flavour tickled my fancy at The Dreamery).

• ’s Great Offline Dating Experiment had me deleting all the apps. I have not found the love of my life, but I have gotten some good stories and friends out of the process, so I’m counting it as a win.

• On getting clarity and life advice from Substack articles, I loved ’s How To Turn 30: Advice From (My) Greats and ’s How to Make the Most of Your 20s.

I am Narcissus, and Substack is my Pond

• I’m an insomniac and sometimes re-read my own pieces late at night. Some of my biased favourites this year were I Miss Being the Youngest Person In The Room and What’s the most unhinged thing you’ve done for a crush? — I’ll go first...

If you made it to the end, I’m wishing you a wonderful end of the year, and I’ll be back in your inbox in 2026!

Running is an Acquired Taste (kind of like when you start drinking beer, you suffer through it to seem cool, and next thing you know, you’re craving it on a sunny day)

Growing up, I despised running; I would come up with ridiculous excuses to avoid running the mile all throughout middle school1. In the spring of 2020, something changed. Stuck at home, I figured I would give it another go. I had tried to get into running before, but it never stuck for more than a week. I took any excuse to get out of the house, and as someone who lacked the focus or discipline to get through a Chloe Ting ab video, running was the perfect solution. No matter how tired or bored I got, I still had to get home somehow. I worked my way up to a 5k, and whenever the runner’s high hit I’d say that one day I wanted to run a marathon. It felt like a distant goal, something for my future self to tick off a list before turning thirty. After running a couple of half-marathons, I realised that I needed the pressure of a looming race to get me to hit the pavement. With more and more people around me running marathons, it suddenly seemed more achievable2. I told myself, what’s five hours of pain for a lifetime of clout?3 Last year, when I was riding the high of running my second half4, I made the endorphin-fuelled decision to sign up for the Amsterdam Marathon. I loved the idea of doing something that was just for myself. Throughout the course of my training, I’d tell my friends that I wasn’t taking things “too seriously.” It was maybe not the fairest assessment, but when I saw people uphauling their entire lives to optimise performance with routines that rivalled those of professional athletes, I felt like my casual-paced runs fuelled by entire bags of Skittles paled in comparison. I didn’t follow elaborate fuelling strategies, splurge on carbon-plated shoes, or decline invites to the pub. I felt like a bit of a fraud. I avoided talking about running altogether (and if you’ve ever met anyone who’s training for a marathon, you know how we love the attention) because I felt like I didn’t quite fit the profile. I wasn’t going into this with any time goals and expectations. My only focus was enjoying myself and trying to get through the next four months without hating running in the process.

What I Learned from Running Little Laps (Marathon Training)

Perspective is everything

• Once you’re running a half-marathon (or more) every weekend, 12km starts to look like a casual mid-week distance. I did a lot of my long runs around Regent’s Park, which meant losing count of how many laps I had done (and farming for local legend status on Strava in the process), so by the time I was running in a farm field on race day, I was used to making do with the distraction of the greenery and the voices in my head.

Celebrate the little wins along the way

• On the previous point, it’s easy to get caught up in training (or in other projects) and to focus so hard on the big picture that you forget to celebrate the small wins. I am guilty of always wanting to move on to the next big things, but I’m learning to slow down and acknowledge that present me is doing so many things that past me could only dream of.

(Some) things are only as dreadful as you allow them to be

• I don’t think everything is about mindset. Some things just objectively suck. However, as the queen of procrastinating long runs on the weekends, I’d come to realise that whilst running 30km is objectively hard it’s not the dreadfully Sisyphean task I had made it out to be in my head. I’m always thinking things are going to be so awful that I’m perpetually putting them off, which just makes me even more anxious. I need the reminder that it’s probably not that bad

Knowing when to stop is just as (if not more) important than knowing when to push

• I hate running fast. I don’t see the point of suffering through feeling like your legs are going to fall off or holding back the urge to puke. I like running long distances because the distance itself is the challenge, I don’t feel the need to go fast as long as I finish. I managed to get through my entire training block without any injuries, something I largely attribute to not pushing my body too far. If I got tired, I’d slow down, if I needed to walk, I’d take a break. It’s not that I didn’t take this marathon seriously, but I reminded myself not to take things too seriously.

Have goals that are [almost] entirely in your hands (if you couldn’t already tell, I’m a bit of a control freak)

• This past year, nothing went according to plan. I graduated in the middle of a recession and I’ve applied to hundreds of jobs. For once it felt nice to do something where the result felt fully within my control. Writing on Substack has given me a similar sense of control. Whilst I’m still pitching other publications, it feels nice to be in control of what I put out (whether or not people read it is a different story though).

Full disclosure, I wrote everything you’ve read so far before actually running the damn thing. I did the best I could with my training plan and was feeling pretty excited. In school, I used to say that the best feeling was walking into an exam room feeling prepared, sure, there are always things that can affect your performance on the day, but as I walked up to the start line, I was feeling pretty confident. It helps that I went in with no specific time goal, my only goal was to enjoy myself (or at least that’s what I was telling everyone5). Making my way into the Olympic stadium, I told myself the tough part was over, this was the victory lap (but a veryyyy long one at that)

What I Learned from Running a Big Lap (Marathon Day)

Trust yourself and trust the process

• I did whatever my Runna training plan told me to, and on race day, I told myself I’d just go with the flow. Turns out everything worked out, and I was feeling pretty good throughout the 42km.

Making friends is the key to success

• My friends are one of my biggest sources of support, and have carried me through some of the hardest times in my life. Making friends on the course was also the key to running faster and stronger than ever. I caught up with a pacer at km 16 and chatted with her until the half-marathon mark. At km 24, I met my guardian angel, an insane French guy named Romain who was doing his 45^th marathon and was my unofficial videographer, coach, pacer and motivational speaker for the remaining 18km.

Have Fun

• I was running for a good time and a long time. I kept expecting to hit the wall, to get to the point where you say I hate this, but I was having a good time throughout. I high-fived every kid sticking out an arm, took candy from strangers6 , face-timed my mom from the middle of a farm field and stopped to hug my friends along the way.

A special thanks to Jet and Popo who travelled to Amsterdam to cheer me on, and my brother who woke up early on a Sunday, kept my family updated and got the best finish-line video

I know this is pretty different from what I usually talk about here, but I need to milk this marathon, and I also feel like a lot of what I learned these past months is applicable in other areas of my life. If you enjoyed this piece, I also recommend checking out this NYT Opinion piece on Long Distance Running and Writing.

It takes more than a single experience to radicalise someone; usually, it’s a series of small offences that build to a breaking point. I’m guessing this is how incels are made (Men Who Hate Women has been sitting on my bedside table for the past six months, but I always seem to get sidetracked), and this is how I became a traditional restaurant^TM purist. It all started with a Sunday lunch when my family was in town for the weekend at an establishment that shall remain nameless, as this isn’t solely about the restaurant itself but also about everything it represents. I’d heard rave reviews from every Tabi-clad and Carhartt-wearing East London resident, and was ready to beg and barter for a dinner reservation. I was elated to move plans around in order to make it for a weekend lunch. As we walked over to the restaurant, I made an offhand comment about my disdain for QR codes in place of physical menus. As we were greeted at the industrial chic door, we were told to take a picture of the blackboard menu. I was committed to not ruining the vibes, so we followed the server to be seated. This is cool my dad commented, looking at the metal stools at the bar. We were handed a drinks menu, and I squinted to read the minuscule print (though here I’ll admit the average patron was probably under the age of forty, and I have unnaturally bad eyesight for my age). We ordered drinks and proceeded to zoom into the hieroglyphics on the picture we’d taken of the blackboard out front, and I found myself biting my tongue and longing for a QR code menu (a piece of general advice: if you’re doing a handwritten menu, make sure you’re employing someone with legible handwriting). The waiter who had said she’d be back to check on us and explain the menu was never to be seen again. After flagging someone down to check on our drinks, we managed to put our order in. I’ll commend that we weren’t rushed out or told when they’d need our table back, a rarity on a weekend. This restaurant seemed to exist outside the natural laws of physics, where time was a loosely regarded construct and the staff would disappear into black holes. I was in equal measures underwhelmed by the food and impressed by our waiter’s ability to avoid eye contact with the dedication of an Olympian, and became increasingly sympathetic to my mother, who insists on impeccable service, reasonable portions and stark white tablecloths whenever the bill has triple digits. My dad and brother, who were at first amused by my comments highlighting how our lunch was playing out as a comedy of errors, realised the severity of the situation when I said no to dessert as I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I didn’t think I’d ever rage against cheesecake, but the situation was dire.

Tapas and other things that do not travel well

You’d be mistaken to assume that I am a hater of sharing plates as a concept. I love to share a meal, and my enthusiasm for multiple things on a menu, coupled with some indecisiveness and people-pleasing tendencies, means that I will almost always suggest ordering a few things for the table. If a man tells me he doesn’t share food (or God forbid, isn’t down for splitting dessert) on a first date, I know I will never [voluntarily] see him again. I’m a lover of tapas, of long nights at wine bars snacking on cheese and olives, and a devout follower of Aperitif hour in the summertime (girl dinner with a side of spritzes, anyone?). Part of why I enjoy these so much, however, is that it’s a low-effort and usually reasonably priced way to catch up with friends. It starts in the late afternoon and is full of possibilities. It can be the plan itself or the prelude for a late dinner. It comes together at the last minute, and the food and company rarely disappoint. It doesn’t require setting an alarm for when reservations open thirty days in advance and won’t leave a gaping hole in your wallet. However, as things often do, the art of casual dining got lost in translation as it made its way across the channel. The casual becomes pretentious, the owner wears Jacques Marie Mage frames, gives interviews to London-based small print magazines and lands a place on a TimeOut list and next thing you know you’re standing in line for forty-five minutes waiting for an uncomfortable seat (back support is never a guarantee), an uninspired menu served on plates handmade in Portugal whilst googling the logistics of skin contact wines. Several things that are charming under the Mediterranean sun become less captivating under the closer scrutiny of British weather. Italian men with loose schedules and year-round tans who go with the flow feel adventurous from June to August, but an inability to text you back or nail down concrete plans will drive you crazy once you’re back in the real world. Laid back, midweek day-drinking is fun on vacation, but concerning once you’re back home and unemployed.

Please, let’s eat

I’m not fundamentally against wine bars and small plates restaurants. What I am protesting against, however, is the fact that they are taking over the city. For all the GLP-1 users out there, these small portions might be just right, but for anyone whose quick and unexplained weight loss can be attributed to Bali Belly instead (my friend got Salmonella whilst travelling in South East Asia and had to communicate via Google Translate with the hotel staff, on the flipside she looked fantastic in all her bikini pictures — I’ve always said that grocery store sushi is the poor man’s Ozempic), you might find yourself feeling insatiable. A single bad experience has not deterred me from trying small plates restaurants and wine bars (I actually have a few that I love and recommend in London). I still think they’re a great option for first dates or catching up with friends if you don’t want to commit to a full meal, aren’t too hungry or want to go somewhere where attractive and well-dressed waiters can choose your wine for you. I’m just left wondering, what happened to leaving a restaurant satisfied, to unbuttoning your jeans in the back of an Uber? Can we please bring back having dinner?

This post is an experience… I recommend listening along

Taylor Swift songs…

For when you’re walking in really nice neighbourhoods2

• I Look in People’s Windows

For leaving someone at the altar

• champagne problems

For when it’s drought season and you need to time your showers

• All Too Well (10 Minute Version)

For when you forgot your keys and your flatmate isn’t home

• my tears ricochet

  • “I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want, just not home”

For the person who stalks people on Find My Friends…and then finds out their ex is seeing someone new

• The Black Dog

For when you’re cheating (emotionally or otherwise)

• Guilty as Sin?

• Fresh Out The Slammer

• High Infidelity

• illicit affairs

• Picture To Burn (from the cheatee POV, because empathy?)

For when you want to feel called out for how you flirt

• Gorgeous

  • “You should take it as a compliment that I got drunk and made fun of the way you talk”

For when you have insane restaurant recommendations (or can get a dinner reservation for BRAT3)

• I Know Places

For the canonical event where you’re fine after breaking up with your boyfriend of several years, but end up absolutely destroyed after the [first post-breakup] situationship/three-month relationship after it ends

• The entire TTPD album, to be honest

For the ones who never stay the night

• The Bolter

For the guys who need an instruction manual

• How You Get The Girl

For Slut Shaming

• Better Than Revenge

  • “She’s better known for the things that she does on the mattress” – I understand why she changed the lyrics, but I will continue to sing the non PC versions in the car

For High School graduations or eliciting peak nostalgia

• Long Live

For romanticising an ex after enough time has passed

• the 1

For (sneakily) getting back with the ex all your friends hate

• The Last Time

• We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together

For romanticising said [toxic] ex because you live for the intensity

• The Way I Loved You

  • It’s okay if you “miss screaming and crying and kissing in the rain”

For realising that you should probably break up for good now

• tolerate it

• exile

  • “I think I’ve seen this film before, and I didn’t like the ending”

For when you start to feel like yourself again

• I Forgot That You Existed

• New Romantics

For age-specific birthday captions

• Fifteen

• 22

  • “happy, free, confused and lonely at the same time” sounds about right

For Hating the Patriarchy

• The Man

• All Too Well

  • “fuck the patriarchy” - Taylor Swift

For playing on a loop for an entire month

• august

For realising you’re no longer the youngest person in the room

• Nothing New

  • “How can a person know everything at eighteen and nothing at twenty-two”… yeah, this one felt personal

For convincing yourself you’ve met the love of your life because you keep running into them

• invisible string

• Mastermind

For when a guy pulls out his poetry on a first date

• I Hate It Here

  • “Please, please, tell me something awful, like you are a poet, trapped inside the body of a finance guy” — This man is real4

That’s all for this week. Hope you enjoyed that, and maybe you can add another song to a highly specific playlist. If you have other perfect situational TSwift songs, let me know in the comments!

Low-stakes hosting and the casual hang

I’ll preface by saying that I am nothing if not committed to the bit. I love a theme, will jump on any excuse to get dressed up, and am always happy to host the pre-game before going out out. I’m obsessed with the elaborate dinner parties hosts every month and have an emotional support Pinterest board. With that being said, this is my official plea to make things casual again for the sake of having regular quality time with your friends. For three years, I lived in a shoebox-sized apartment in Fitzrovia, and with the exception of my annual Christmas party where I defied the laws of physics and fit thirty people into my tiny living room-turned-sauna (praying that no one would fall out of the second story window), having friends over was always a low stakes and usually last-minute thing. There was the occasional elaborate meal, but for the most part, my friends and I sat on the couch with our plates on our laps, catching up over a bowl of pasta. Since moving to a new place this past September (a kitchen that is separate from your living room is a game changer; anyone who had come to my last place will know how big of a deal this was for me), my flatmate and I have thrown our fair share of house parties.

Ranking the men in your friends’ lives — Dance Mom’s Style

This was the impromptu post-dinner activity that resulted in the most fun I’ve had at dinner in a long time, and an onslaught of texts from people who needed to know what Dustin* (bottom of the pyramid — by a long shot) looked like and what he had done. It started innocently enough, a chill dinner at home with my friends Zoe and May* (I made Pasta alla Norma with a crispy panko-parmesan topping that got rave reviews — stay tuned for a recipe at the end of the month). Catching up on May’s ever-entertaining dating life (when we first met, she was freshly broken up with her boyfriend of six years, safe to say it has been a treat watching her embrace her single era) I made an offhand comment, suggesting that one day we rank all the guys she has been with (and I am well aware that if a man ever said this he’d be crucified, we all abhor locker room talk so rest assured we kept things classy). It wasn’t a mean-spirited remark, but mostly a comment on how the things that happen to her don’t seem to happen to anyone else. At this point, it was too late, the girls were giddy and excited, and the desert long forgotten as I pulled out my laptop.

The way we would hypothetically rank May’s boys would be fairly straightforward. I would open a blank PowerPoint, and she would go down the notes app list (you know the one) in chronological order. We’d blurt out defining characteristics, memorable quotes, and then rank them out of 10. Points could be given for entertainment factors and creative dates, and deducted for ghosting or breadcrumbing. May knew all about them (obviously), I had heard most of the stories as they were happening, and Zoe was hearing about a lot of these guys for the first time, so we would have a range of opinions in the judging panel. May notoriously has a single question whenever any of our friends start seeing someone new: Was he a generous lover? (think Regina George’s cool mom in her twenties). So naturally, there would be a generosity score as well. Average scores would be calculated away from May’s eyes, and at the end of the night, I’d step into my role as MC and present our findings, Abby Lee Miller style, working my way from the bottom of the pyramid all the way up to the top.

This is just a sample idea of what a (lopsided) pyramid might look like. Again I feel the need to recognise that any man doing this ever would be cancelled immediately (and I’m ready for all the men in my life to text and berate me), but when your friends get wronged, this is a healthy way to cope, and when someone treats them really right, you need to give credit where its due. If we were hypothetically doing this, some honourable mentions would include:

• Dustin* (1.0), who knows what he did

• Gary* (2.9), who was such a girl about this would drop ultimatums and say that either they were exclusive or he was ending things, and then proceed to take things back when May said she didn’t want anything serious (and mope for a week, this happened a couple of times). He also blatantly lied about his height (points were docked for lying and general bad vibes);

• Thomas* (5.1), whose bullet points included looked camp straight in the eye, tote bag and film camera starter pack, listens to Clairo, try hard, great sex;

• James* (7.3), who was very sweet, works for an events company and got bonus points for being able to get you tickets to sold-out concerts and festivals (we all love James)

• David* (8.8), who might be the love of May’s life, and also matched her freak on every level;

• Diego* (10.3), with whom she saw bioluminescent fish and did other things I pinkie-promised never to tell anyone;

• And finally, (drumroll please) at the very top of the pyramid with a score of 11 (you might have noticed some people got extra bonus points, a 10 point scale cannot contain greatness) was Mason*, who happens to be David’s favourite DJ (May loves celebrities and David was soft-ghosting her at the time, everybody wins)!

PowerPoint Night: where everyone can get involved

I’m a lover of PowerPoint night, and it doesn’t have to be this mean elaborate. A couple of years ago, my high school friend group started a tradition where we’d spend the first night of the year presenting everything we did in the previous one (this year it took over six hours, and we took raclette breaks in between presentations). Now that everyone is busy and we’re perpetually in a state of catching up, this is a more exciting and interactive way to get your friends up to date with your life (I would also recommend a monthly newsletter with updates, but not all of us are [f]unemployed). PowerPoint night can be a chance to introduce new friends to your lore, but also to get them on board with your newest hyper fixation (PSA on behalf of Clara: everyone go watch K-Pop Demon Hunters on Netflix), pitch your next group trip, stage an intervention or create starter packs of everyone in the group. I think part of the fun comes from the nostalgia of working on something together. It’s also an activity that forces everyone to be present, phones were nowhere to be seen as we (hypothetically) voted on my friend’s past conquests. Whilst anyone who’s ever done a group project with friends can attest to the fact that it can either make or break the friendship, this is a wholesome and dynamic way to get the group together. PowerPoint night might require a little more effort for all parties involved, but keeping a time or slide limit and simplifying the menu (I’m all for ordering a pizza and calling it a day!! Hosting is hosting!) makes it easier to pull off.

Putting corporate skills to good use and a recipe for a good time

Make the most of your MS Office license from work and get on that PowerPoint train. I know the trend has been making rounds, but far from being a gimmicky task to impose on your guests, I’m yet to have a night where people didn’t have a good time (though be prepared for varying levels of effort committed to the task). This past New Year’s, one of my school friends brought his girlfriend (shout out to Hillary for braving spending five days with a group of people who had known each other for years, and winning us all over on day one, we love you Hil), and it was the nicest and most entertaining way to get to know her. Suggestions for your next PowerPoint night might include: introduce your SO to the group (for the ones in a relationship) or pitch your single friends (for the ones in the trenches).

*Names have been changed

If you enjoyed this piece, you might like:

• 8 Ways to Embrace “Deep Casual Hosting” (So You’ll Actually Do It) by

  • I’m all for casual hosting and think it’s the backbone of nurturing meaningful relationships when everyone is so busy (there’s only so much you can do on a weekend, and I like seeing my close friends on a regular basis). I love a night out and trying out new restaurants, but there’s something to be said about extending the night by retreating to the couch after dinner with a cup of tea

• You Should Throw a Party is an ode to the house party by my favourite dynamic duo on Substack, and (I know I raved about the casual hang/hosting here, but the house party is my favourite way to socialise and is becoming a lost art — if you don’t believe me, wrote all about it in The Death of Partying in the U.S.A.—and Why It Matters)

• I love ’s recipes and the hosting philosophy she preaches and outlines in Nothing Fancy (and the plum and browned butter almond cake in this cookbook is the best thing I’ve ever made, it’s my go-to contribution when I have to bring dessert), don’t be afraid to keep things simple or ask for help!

On Writing — From Coping Mechanism to Creative Outlet

I’ve always turned to writing to help me make sense of the world. I’ve kept diaries from a young age and will try to fight off the cringe as I read them back years later. I recently finished a journal I started in November 2020. Flipping through those pages felt like travelling through time. I’ve never been able to consistently journal. I would usually turn to writing in tumultuous times. It was a lifeline when I had my first panic attack at ten years old. My parents were going through a divorce, and it was the first time I experienced emotional distress. At first, I thought it was something physiological; the pressure on my chest, the nausea, the shortness of breath. I would later tune those out, growing used to the low-grade anxiety that has ebbed and flowed in the past twelve years. When I was overwhelmed, I always found it helpful to put my thoughts down on a page. It was a way to work through my emotions, it forced me to slow down, I could only write so quickly.

For the longest time, I only ever found myself writing at my lowest points. In between therapy appointments, when I needed to talk myself off a ledge, or as a way to navigate the withdrawal of more self-destructive coping mechanisms. As a result, I have a pretty accurate snapshot of where my head was at in my first year of university. Coping with what was (now looking back) an undiagnosed depressive episode, I effortlessly filled the pages of my Moleskine. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t thrive in trauma. I might have thoroughly enjoyed A Little Life and The Year of Magical Thinking, maybe in part because I like to feel things intensely, but I wasn’t deliberately relishing in my misery. I think most people might be able to relate to this ( articulates this better in I can’t write when I’m happy). When you’re sad or angry or hurt, the words seem to flow out of you faster than you can process them. When things were good, however, I found it increasingly harder to fill a page. I would try to immortalise summers with friends, quiet moments with my family, feeling at peace, but I’d struggle to get past the first page. When I picked up writing again earlier this year, it was in an attempt to regain some control over my life. Once again, I found myself writing my way through a crisis, only this time with the additional awareness that people might be reading it. I am by no means close to having things figured out, but a newfound fear started cropping up; What happens when everything works out, will I no longer have anything to write about?

Life Writing 101

In my final year of university, I took a module called Life Writing: Autofiction and Fictional Autobiography. I needed one more credit to fulfil my degree requirements and wanted to balance out my timetable. It might have been one of the most significant classes I took at UCL, it was definitely the most memorable one. It was what first introduced me to autofiction as a genre, giving me the vocabulary to discuss the blending of boundaries between the author, narrator and protagonist. I was always drawn to the murky waters of life writing (Heartburn by Nora Ephron and Sex and Rage by Eve Babitz are some of my personal favourites). I first read Barthes’ The Death of the Author in first year (to those who are unfamiliar, I recommend the short read, but the gist of it is summarised in the final line “the birth of the reader must come at the cost of the death of the author”), and I proceeded to cite it in every essay I wrote for my degree. You might think that’s lazy on my end, but that essay burned its way into my brain when I was seventeen and has redefined the way I’ve approached reading since. The key texts and conversations from my Life Writing module had a similar effect. Lejeune defines autobiography as a “contractual genre,” there is an agreement in place between the reader and the writer. An expectation of truth (whatever that might be is another conversation entirely). I know better than to disagree with famous French essayists, but I’d go as far as to argue that genre itself is contractual in nature, a structural convention in place to define expectations. I digress. I know that autofiction is all the rage these days, and I’d argue that what we’re seeing on Substack now is the rebirth of the first-person industrial complex, this time with all the unedited freedom of self-publishing.

On writing about yourself, and the edited, curated version of you

I draw from my life for writing inspiration. I’d say most people are doing the same, regardless of what kind of writing you’re getting up to. There is, however, an overwhelming number of people writing about their [seemingly unfiltered] personal lives on Substack. Self-labelled online diaries where people can dish out intimate details for the whole world to see. I don’t know about you, but the way I write in my diary is entirely different from how I write anywhere else. I think the prospect of an audience, be that of a single reader or thousands, inherently changes the text. So yes, my writing is very raw, having people read my writing still feels incredibly vulnerable, and I’m dealing with it via exposure therapy (I still sometimes blackout after pressing publish). But the version of me on the internet, even my most honest self, is still a very edited one. I’m still only sharing a sliver of myself, carefully selected not-so-sore spots and cuts that have scabbed over time. A lot of what goes down in my diary, or into a Word document that will never see the light of day, includes details that aren’t mine to share, thoughts too honest, voiced quietly only to my closest friends after a bottle of wine. When I decided to make my Substack public, I was hit with the awareness that anyone who googled my name would be able to end up here. Old classmates, Hinge dates, situationships and future employers alike would have a somewhat unfiltered access to my mind. It’s not deliberate, the curation, but I’m aware of it, at the back of my mind. As judge, jury and executioner writer, editor and publisher, I get full control over the version of myself I get to craft and display to the public (and if you’re wondering why I’ve chosen to include my questionable taste in men and semi-neurotic tendencies, I’m going for authenticity and honesty here).

Write what you know, and where to go from there

I’m still trying to find the balance between being honest and sharing too much. I keep reiterating Nora Ephron’s everything is copy in an attempt to remind myself that anything can be good material, I don’t need to pull from my latest sessions in therapy to write something worthwhile. It’s an active exercise, I don’t want to be afraid of living a good life in fear of running out of ideas. I’m still dedicated to doing things for the plot. I’ll try anything once. I’ve gotten to some pretty interesting places by saying yes to [almost] everything. If we are the sum of our experiences, I’m committed to maximising the input, even if everything doesn’t quite make it through the final edits.

Pot will rot your brain and other thoughts about being a stoner

Growing up, this was one of the main things I was told in an effort to deter me from ever lighting up. I was told weed would make me stupid and that it was a gateway drug to more nefarious and dangerous substances. I don’t think the former was necessarily untrue; anyone who has ever tried having a conversation and had the uncanny feeling that they’re watching a video at 0.75x speed can attest to that. As someone who’s naturally bouncing off the walls (I’m a 2.0x speed gal before my morning coffee and genuinely believe I would have a heart attack if I ever tried Adderall), you can imagine my frustration when my friends’ responses would start to lag, or they’d lose their train of thought entirely.

A couple of weeks ago, I ventured far into East London to visit a furniture showroom for my brother (who’s doing adult things like buying a couch whilst I write about my latest Hinge date on the internet — my parents are very proud of both of us). Claire, my old flatmate, offered to join so we could spend the day together catching up. I suggested we stick around afterwards to make the trek worth it, and we could spend the day enjoying the sun. Walking through Bethnal Green, she visibly tensed, holding her breath and making a face as a cloud of smoke wafted past us. I jokingly took a long inhale. I wish you wouldn’t do that she said. Claire is one of the least uptight and judgy people I know, so I asked her to elaborate. It’s a drug, Julia, it’s scary! First it’s a joint at a party and next thing you know you’re a crackhead and I have to visit you under a bridge!

AI might be coming for your job, but it will come for your basic functioning first

We grew up being warned about the negative side effects of drugs and alcohol, maybe to the point of becoming desensitised to the images of deformed babies and decaying mouths on the side of Marlboro packets. The AI conversation has also been littered with a lot of fear-mongering. As a fresh grad whose schedule is filled with coffee chats in an attempt to find some guidance regarding my future, I understand all too well the uncertainty about the impact of AI on almost every industry. Who’s going to hire me to do something Chat GPT will do for free? I’d argue that Chat will never know what it’s like to get ghosted by your older coworker with a slutty hoop, so my (unpaid) job on Substack is safe for now. Still, anxieties are high. As someone who still thinks I can write better than Chat GPT (for now), and doesn't get the point of asking it something I could just Google (generative being the key word here, I was equally amused and horrified reading the headlines about the Chicago Sun-Times using AI to come up with a summer reading recommendation with nonexistent books), I was surprised to discover my friends’ (and everyone else’s) overreliance on AI.

My High School five-year reunion was this past weekend, and as the designated unemployed friend, I was hunched over my laptop at the breakfast table finishing application assignments and double-checking cover letters before we headed out to make the most of the open bar. I can’t believe I applied for placement internships without Chat GPT, my friend said. Yeah, I use it for everything, another one, who’s currently finishing up an MSc in Finance, added. I felt like Will Poulter in that one scene of We’re the Millers when he finds out everyone else is getting paid. I was appalled. But also, here were some of the smartest and most competent girls I knew telling me they no longer knew how to reply to an email without first consulting Chat GPT.

It’s a tool, but at what point is it being used to cut off a limb?

I know I might have come off pretentious so far, so let me reel it back. I don’t think I’m better than everyone for not being an avid AI user, and I can see where it can be helpful. I also think that [sometimes] being the only person not using something that might give you a leg up does not make you noble, it makes you an idiot. I’ve asked Chat GPT to summarise information, skim job descriptions and tell me what skills to showcase and explain why my code wouldn’t run. The problem is, I think we’re getting lazy. We’re becoming the generation unable to think critically, to detect nuance, and who needs to be spoonfed information by someone on TikTok. Every time I see someone bashing AI on Substack notes, I feel a little more seen, and when I see people promoting tips on how to use AI to write their posts, I think dude, know your audience! We’re not here to optimise, and I’m always hopeful to find other readers equally outraged to see the emoji-littered posts that populate LinkedIn making their way over here.

At the risk of sounding like an old man…

In the age of [mis]information, nobody has an excuse to be ignorant anymore. It’s easy to be the old man bashing the new kids on the block, to complain that you didn’t have certain advantages back in your day. When writing my undergrad dissertation, my research mostly relied on books with no digital versions, no way to CTRL+F and find what I was looking for. I felt like I was back in the olden days, but over the nine months of research, I also fell in love with the pursuit of knowledge. Of falling down a rabbit hole and following whatever sparked your interest. I relished in the satisfying feeling of dropping off over twenty books after pressing submit. I’m not saying we should give up technology, but can empathise with the increasing urge to disconnect. When it comes to AI, or any other groundbreaking tool, I think there’s a learning curve when it comes to using it responsibly, finding where it can be helpful and where it can hinder. It feels disorienting to be part of the generation that grew up online, never really needing to navigate something new, only to find yourself sounding eerily similar to a grumpy old man talking about better times.

Some exploratory research (read: sending off polls on various WhatsApp group chats)

I’m not sure I’m making a lot of sense here, as I was trying to piece this essay together, I found myself going around in circles. I figured I’d phone a friend and try to understand how other people were using AI. I don’t think I’d make my Research Methods professor very proud here, but in an effort to get some quick responses, I shot off a couple of questions in a few group chats. Now onto the results: my friends fell all over the AI-usage scale, with some using it daily for work and uni tasks, checking grammar and even asking Chat GPT for recipe and workout inspiration, whilst others only occasionally resorted to asking for tech support. One of my friends then texted me separately and admitted:

I recently had a conversation with some friends I genuinely don’t think I could graduate without chat gpt

I’ve become so lazy not because I don’t know what I’m doing but because I know chat gpt can do it so much faster for me

So it does all my thinking working in seconds and then I use that to do my own thing

I’ve known her for ages, she might be the most creative person in my immediate circle, so I asked her if she found that it was at least freeing up time for her to then do something else she normally wouldn’t be able to do. She said that usually she’d just chill on the couch instead (very relatable), but that knowing that she could work faster did relieve some stress.

Maybe all is not lost

AI is here to stay, there’s no use in wishing for simpler times or refusing to acknowledge it if everyone around you has Chat GPT in their back pocket. I think it can be an incredibly powerful tool, and that emphasis should be placed on learning how to make good use of it. I also think it’s worth considering if everything needs to and sholuld be optimised. I can understand the panic that comes with something completely new (I am big on panicking these days), but I also remain hopeful. There are people who are much better suited to dissect the impact of AI, but I’ll leave my two cents here: in the same way we’ve been telling our parents not to believe everything they read on the internet, remind yourself not to believe everything Chat has told you.

On Hair Matters

My relationship with my hairdresser Rin is the longest one I’ve had in the city. From the first time he cut my hair when I was seventeen, no one else has touched my tresses. Price increases be damned, he’s a hair wizard. I’ve converted several friends, and my mom will get on the Eurostar whenever her hair is getting too long. His word for me is gospel, and so when he suggested I should invest in salon-quality shampoo, I did what I was told (though scouring the internet for the best deals). However, as a sign of the times (cost of living crisis/ recession/ unemployment), I bravely declared that my hair will need to adjust to my current situation and now learn to live on £6 Pantene.

My Money Philosophy and the impact of “girl math”

I was an Olympic medallist in the mental gymnastics involved in justifying expenses long before we started using girl math to write things off. I wasn’t a big drinker in my first couple of years at uni, and a couple of mid-week drinks to catch up with friends will easily cost you £15 in London, which was what I paid for a workout class with my student discount. I’d always go with a friend, so I could justify a pricey workout as a 2-for-1. £15 is a lot to pay for a single workout as a student (or as anyone trying to stretch their limited disposable income), but a reasonable amount to spend to socialise. I also started managing my expenses for the first time whilst living in a very expensive city, so London prices became my reference point. The way I saw it, living in London was expensive, but you were paying for a certain experience. I enjoyed all the free things the city had to offer (a guide to free London coming soon) and mastered the art of a cost-benefit analysis by making the most of the city for the least amount possible. Back in the day (I feel old already), the under-26s could get any seat for almost any show at the Royal Opera House (now Royal Ballet and Opera) for £25. You best believe I was a regular. Books were the one thing I never thought twice about purchasing, and even though I moved to London bringing only the book I read on the train, my shelf is now bursting at the seams (in part as a consequence of my degree). I’m by no means a minimalist, but rarely buy new clothes (a perk of being the same size as my mother, I’d often shop her closet), and wait until I fully run out of a makeup or skincare product before getting a replacement. We all have the things we splurge on and the little (maybe insignificant?) things we do to save. Living in central London for the past four years meant I walked everywhere (I’d rarely spend more than £20 a month on transport), and have only now learned the real cost of commuting.

Illustrating through my book-buying process

Listen, I hate to support a billionaire and I know convenience is ruining our lives and the planet and its part of the reason why we have no community, but as someone who buys books at an alarming rate (they get a dedicated line on my monthly expense Excel — real grownup Exhibit A), I couldn’t ignore the 50% discount I got online (with next day delivery!!!). Anyone who’s ever bought anything second-hand ever will know that you don’t always get what you’re looking for. I love browsing second-hand bookshops, but I never go in with a purpose. I was, however, spoilt for choice with physical bookstores, both big chain and indie, but whenever I found something I liked, I’d sneakily pull out my phone, pull the brightness down to the minimum and check if it was significantly cheaper on Amazon. There I said it. My most shameful behaviour for everyone on the internet to read. Before I get cancelled, I will say I am a reformed consumer, and ever since my friend Laura got me on World of Books I have stopped buying new books (almost) altogether and am seriously reconsidering my Prime membership. (PSA they have free shipping and a massive catalogue).

[don’t take] financial advice from an unemployed 22-year-old

There’s a cost-of-living crisis, we’re in the middle of a recession, everyone is getting laid off. My job-hunting spreadsheet’s lines are about to hit the triple digits and have an alarming amount of red and I’m trying to get my life (somewhat) together. Working towards my Financial Responsibility goal for 2025 I’ve made some strides. I’ll read an econ book and skip my spin class for the week and wonder am I there yet? in the same way I’ll blot the oil off my takeaway pizza and expect to wake up a size two the next morning. Still, it’s the effort that counts right?

Everyone and their mother had already told me to “pay myself first,” but that’s a little hard to do when you don’t exactly have income. I have felt like a real grownup by opening a Stocks and Investments ISA, dumping my savings in (aka the result of spending two months at home) and repeating time on the market beats timing the market as I watched the economy go from garbage to dumpster fire. I now also spend the first Sunday of every month going through every single line in my bank statements and filling out an Excel spreadsheet. My life is very unpredictable at the moment and whilst I might not be able to plan my spending very well, I think it still helps to understand your spending and find some places to cut back (I did this exercise on my first year of uni which resulted in realising the real cost of a G&T, I forced myself to like beer, which still hadn’t happened after six years living in Belgium, and never looked back).

The first things to go

• Expensive workout classes

• Fancy vitamins or probiotics (eat some fibre and call it a day)

• Salon-quality shampoo

• My Glossier eyeliner (the eyeliner that taught me everything, but I ran out over Christmas break and didn’t feel like paying for shipping. The €2 replacement I got at the drugstore is doing a good enough job. The Glossier one is better but not 10x better – [broke] girl math)

• New books (if bought online) — not a deliberate change but one that is saving my wallet nonetheless

• Fun snacks on a regular basis (I’ll still get some fun things on occasion, but the seaweed thins, dark chocolate covered dried cherries and crunchy corn have been scrapped from my weekly shop)

The things that stayed

• Jason’s sourdough grains & seeds ciabattin (let them eat cake bread)

• Fage 2% Yoghurt (I’m a yoghurt snob and this is the one thing I won’t compromise on)

• Vitamin D supplement — very cheap and very essential

• Tickets to the Ballet — at a lower frequency but the Royal Opera House still has deals for young people (£30 Amphitheatre tickets to some performances and special Young RBO nights with prices as low as £6). I’m more of a Ballet than Opera fan (and not crazy about modern productions, give me maximalism on stage pls), so I’ll favour those

• Ubers when it’s sketchy (I’ll factor it into my going-out budget if I can’t get home on public transport or am heading home alone, better safe than sorry)

• Social coffees/drinks/meals — the benefit of community outweighs the costs (but as someone with a packed social calendar, I still keep track of my spending and try to keep weekday outings cheap)

Something my best friend’s coworker once said…

which defined my spending for the rest of my uni years. This was someone a couple of years older whom she met when working a consulting summer internship. He told her he wished he didn’t worry so much about saving as a student, that he made the most of all his free time, and that once he became a corporate slave was fully employed, he saved in a couple of months what took him a full year with a student job. Now I am well aware this is a super privileged approach from someone who has a safety net and security and doesn’t need to worry about money, which leads me to my final point

Checking my privilege so I don’t get Substack cancelled

Full transparency, my parents have been incredibly supportive (both financially and emotionally) of me in this post-grad/ job-hunting period. I’m aware that I’m coming from a super privileged position, as my mother often reminds me that when she and my dad were living in London when he was in grad school on a scholarship, they had a very different lifestyle. Making the most of this (unplanned) break and having the time to figure things out is a luxury that comes with not having to worry about making rent or what I’m going to eat. I know this isn’t most people’s reality, but I figured people might still relate to some of the things I talked about here. Still, a friend recently complained that he was broke, and when I pointed out he has a job, he pointed out he pays rent. I was both silent and silenced.

Playing tour guide this past week, a friend asked me what my favourite thing about living in London was. The fact that you’re never bored crossed my mind. The way the city makes you feel inspired. Riding the bus across Westminster Bridge on the way home from a night out. Eating pizza on the curb, looking up at the Shard after getting kicked out of a club, watching the sun come up. The way the light hits the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral at golden hour. All of these things make up the backdrop of a very colourful season of life, but what really makes you tune in every week are the characters. London as a city has a lot to offer, but what makes it my favourite place is the fact that so many of my favourite people are here. I think this city (much like other big cities around the world) has a transient nature. People will come and go, but at some point, they end up here, multiple roads leading to the same destination. Different eras of my life overlap for a brief moment in time. It’s the people that make this place home, the little slice of familiarity making a city of over eight million people feel small, in the best of ways.

Romanticising the city, recurring characters and main character moments

Few things give me the same quick burst of serotonin as randomly bumping into someone I know on the street. A weekly occurrence for me these days, it’s one of those things that make a city start to feel small. Realistically, I know it’s not that rare, I know a lot of people who have ended up in London, and I’ve lived here for long enough to know lots of people in the city. Still… it makes me feel like a character in a sitcom, with guest appearances from previous seasons sprinkled in. Last month, I bumped into a guy I knew from studying in Florence four years ago whilst coming out of the Picadilly Circus Tesco with my friend Claire, and then the following morning as I was telling her how crazy it is that I keep seeing random people from my past, a girl I knew from middle-school stopped me mid-sentence in Hampstead Heath (I’ve never illustrated a point so perfectly). Last Sunday, when I dropped by a pub to congratulate my friends on completing the London Marathon, I caught up with my first-ever boss, who was coincidentally also waiting to celebrate a friend. Walking down the South Bank with my mom in tow, I was stopped by an acquaintance from high school. I’d been replying to her Instagram stories, but we never got around to making concrete plans. I think we might finally go for coffee. Then there’s also the more frequently recurring characters, the running weekly or monthly plans that have a dedicated spot on my colour-coded calendar.

I’m a stalker’s dream — the one where I try not to dox myself

I’m a creature of habit, I love routine, and when I find something I like, I tend to stick to it. I always get the same things at my favourite restaurants, I run three variations of the same route three times a week. When I was a student at UCL, Saturday night karaoke at Mully’s was my religion. I love Pub Quiz on Tuesdays and Friday night dinners followed by The Bar. The Bar has become a fixed event on my calendar since my friend Giulia1 became enamoured by the TikTok-famous bartender who works there. After a long-overdue dinner at her place a couple of months ago, trying to convince me to go out for a drink, she exclaimed in a Hail Mary attempt you have to come tonight, you need to meet the love of my life. Giulia and I met in the first week of grad school, when both of us started crushing on the same TA (PSA, not a lot of straight men in Marketing), however, she’s also had some questionable entanglements (not that I’m one to judge), so I was understandably curious. Now, whilst I would usually judge a man who posts thirst-trappy TikToks with a cocktail shaker, bartender did hook me up with loads of *free* olives (low blood pressure girlies will understand), so I quickly became a repeat offender.

One of my recurring complaints about the city is how everything requires so much planning. Everyone’s calendar (including my own) is booked out weeks in advance, and good luck having a weekend brunch without a reservation! This place was my low-effort dream come true. A walking distance from my place and just down the street from Giulia’s, it felt like a low commitment to come by, have a drink, maybe decide to stay for another. So I’ll admit, I’m not a saint sacrificing my Friday nights so my friend can make eye contact that will be discussed ad nauseum over brunch (though it’s a bonus). I’m also there for the music, the company, the free olives (can you tell I’m chuffed?) and the cheap Uber home. There’s something grounding in seeing the same people every week, even if you don’t know their names, the recurring background characters of your life. Of knowing exactly what you want from the menu and falling into a familiar routine (walk in, jackets in the back, take a lap, order, dance, pee break, second drink).

Serendipity, excitement and comfort in equal doses

I moved into my residence hall in my first year of uni two weeks late thanks to a government mandated quarantine. I’d always imagined parties on freshers week, befriending everyone on my floor, and instead was met with a post-apocalyptic greeting. My flat of six was occupied by myself, a shy girl at the end of the hallway and a boy across from me who I never saw the entire nine months I lived there (a story for another time). On my first night, I posted an instagram story of the empty kitchen, geo-tagging my location, and less than an hour later I got a DM from Giorgia, a girl I’d known in school. It felt like divine intervention. Little did I know she’d go on to become one of my closest friends. We often talk about how lucky we were, that the city did what it does best and made sure our paths would cross. When a friend from school was visiting Giorgia at the end of our first year, she said at the end of the weekend that she felt like she’d seen everything. It was the first (though not last) time I felt a knee-jerk protectiveness about the city. I had been there for nine months, and I still hadn’t seen everything, how could she say she was done? Five years in and I still get surprised, I’m still finding new places, meeting new people. I’ve lived in Covid-London, empty and quiet, I had uni-London, making Bloomsbury and Fitzrovia and Marylebone my own personal playground. I’m discovering post-grad, real-life-adult (ish) London, befriending produce sellers and gravitating towards the same spot every week in my local Hampstead Pub.

I’ve fallen into a routine, I have familiar places and people, but the city continues to surprise me. It’s still yielding fruit and I’m not ready to let it go just yet. Samuel Johnson famously said, When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, and I guess I still have plenty of energy for life in the city. I’m sure I’ll eventually get priced out of my neighborhood, I might move for a job. A day might come where I can no longer write off my single glazed windows that barely shut and hearing everything my neighbors say as “part of the charm”. A day when I’ll crave more space, stability, energy-efficient housing, peace and quiet. But for now I can say without a doubt that there’s no place I’d rather be.

If you couldn’t tell already, I do really love it here, and in the spirit of getting other people to also fall in love with the city (maybe a mistake since my rent keeps increasing), I’ll be posting some of my recommendations around the city over here at London Guide pretty soon.

Over the past couple of years, every major publication has come out with something to say about the current loneliness epidemic. Every twenty-something who went through university or entered the workforce within the context of the pandemic can attest to the effects on our social lives and, consequently, mental health. Being in your twenties brings a newfound set of challenges. In conversations with several friends who were graduating and about to start work, many of whom were moving to new cities for a job, making friends as an adult seemed like a major challenge. Factor in the fact that some of us felt borderline socially inept having spent some of our prime socialising years locked up at home, and the loneliness label might start to make some more sense. Still, I feel that many of us are not entirely blameless for our current predicament.

A couple of years ago, when my brother was still living in London as a fresh post-grad (a phase in his life I now see with much kinder and understanding eyes) I remember a conversation with my mom where we discussed his lack of enthusiasm for the city. We moved to London at the same time, I was a fresh undergrad and my brother was a master’s student. Both of us struggled that first year, with classes being fully online we leaned on each other and grew a lot closer. We spent a lot of time together, walking around the empty city, racking up our step count (and to this day I have a near-perfect mental map of Zone 1 to prove it). As the summer of 2021 drew to a close and things started opening up again, my second year of uni meant trying to make up for lost time and living off the high of meeting new people. When I told my mom I thought what my brother was missing was community, I mentally eye-rolled and lightly cringed at the word, but there was no better fitting term.

An interlude: tales of an intimacy junkie

I crave connection and a single conversation with a barista or my produce lady or my neighbour on my way out of the house has me giddy for the rest of the day. I want to know people intimately. I collect coffee orders and allergies and favourite books and throw-away details. I am always the least cool or chill person in the room, and have made peace with the fact that it’s the price to pay for not running the risk of missing out on connection. I’m sometimes a little too honest or upfront, I’ll tell someone I’m not that close with that I really enjoy our time together, or that I saw or read something that made me think of them, and then I might stay up that night staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out if it was too much. I will never understand people’s fixation with trying to be cool. There’s this boy I had a fleeting crush on, a lapse of judgement, and we still hang out from time to time. One of my best friends is perpetually curious about why I was even interested in the first place. He’s the complete opposite of the type of guy I usually go for (though with my sometimes questionable taste, that fact alone wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing). Still, he’s also the human embodiment of everything I find frustrating. She once said that if we looked up nonchalant in the dictionary, a picture of this boy would come up alongside the definition. I’m not sure what drew me in, maybe the fact that he’s hard to read? I have a lingering suspicion it might have been the intense eye contact and the fact that he always asks me what I’m reading whenever I see him (which are both quite mundane things). My friend suspects that I’ve fallen for the whole nonchalant cool act, which I refuse to accept as a card-carrying member of the caring too much club.

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Relationships take work, and making time for the people you love still requires effort

As Kim K famously said, nobody wants to work these days. People want a community, everyone wants the perks of having a village, but no one wants to be a villager. Strangers are often surprised when I mention I still hang out with friends from high school. I’ll see the ones who ended up in London every month or two. My close group of high school girlfriends who all live in different countries try to get together for a girls’ trip a few times a year (and I started on Substack as a way of keeping them updated on my life). I see childhood friends every time I go back to Brazil. I’m still in touch with my middle school best friend and visit on a semi-regular basis. Last year, a friend I made when studying Italian over the summer of 2021 came to London for a week, even though we hadn’t properly spoken for the past couple of years. Seeing us talk for four days straight, you’d think we hung out on a weekly basis. Since graduating, brunch with friends from grad school has become a monthly occurrence. My Google Calendar is full of coffee dates and catchups and dinners and calls (my introvert friends’ personal hell), though I’m all for bringing back the casual hang. If I see someone I know on the street, I’ll always stop to say hello. I once made friends with a girl whilst waiting in line outside a club (hi Harriet!) and then proceeded to make plans to hang out the following week. I now attend her book club every month. The thing is, this busy social calendar and subsequent support system didn’t just fall on my lap. In school and at university, meeting people and maintaining friendships was easier. Spending time together was just built into your day, no need to play calendar Tetris to try and find a date and time that works for everyone, making plans weeks or months in advance.

I’m very lucky to have incredibly present and supportive friends, but it goes both ways. Being a priority for someone else also means knowing how to prioritise them. When I told a friend from high school (who’s also an avid runner) that I’d woken up at 5am that day to bike alongside my flatmate who had a 25km run as part of her marathon training, I was met with a wow, I don’t think any of my friends would do that for me. My immediate thought was you need new friends. Sure, not everyone is going to be your ride-or-die, I’m all for making more pointy friends (a term I’ve stolen from to replace my much less flattering medium friend), but I think so many people have been caught up in putting themselves first and protecting their peace that they have forgotten that sometimes caring for someone means inconveniencing yourself, or doing things that might not be important to you just because they’re important to them. I’ve trekked an hour on public transport on a weeknight for a friend’s volleyball game. I don’t really care about volleyball but I do care about her.

The challenge of friendships in the age of being effortless and cool

Reaching out to new friends or old classmates with whom I’m trying to rekindle a friendship means an internal discussion and having to convince myself that its not weird that I’m trying to make plans, and that I’ve never once been put off by someone with whom I clicked with at a party or did a group project with reaching out to get coffee. I’ve been ignored enough times in a group chat with an assortment of friends and acquaintances from high school (being the initiator is not for the weak) that I had to convince myself that these people did not actually hate me, they just don’t reply on group chats (when trying to make this friend group happen I felt like Gretchen Wieners being told by a screechy Regina George that its just not going to happen). I have since named and shamed the non-responders (we need to start using the thumbs down emoji more often) and no longer have to enlist my close friends to reply in the group before I try to plan something.

Of course, effort goes both ways, but I’m trying not to get caught in the trap of thinking things will always be 50/50. When it comes to love (in all its forms), keeping score is never the way to go. Whilst many of us are trying to unpack casual relationships and what they can entail (see also: What the f*** is a situationship? by ), casual friendships can also be tricky. I’m used to and have no problem going above and beyond for my close friends, but am still figuring out how to navigate lighter and newer friendships (can you accidentally love-bomb a new friend? how much enthusiasm is too much?), as well as what happens when the nature of a friendship (sometimes inevitably) changes. In the meantime, I’ll carry on wearing my heart on my sleeve and hoping for the best.

Further reading and some rabbit holes I’ve been down on

I’ve binged all of Antonia’s pieces these past few weeks, and here she managed to articulate all the perks of actually giving a shit

• The Chronically Online Spiritual Girlboss's guide to emotional numbness -

These touch on romantic relationships and how they can help you develop as an individual, but I think a lot of the sentiment here can also apply to platonic relationships.

• if you want good taste, fall in love -

• a case for dating someone different -

Happy Hour by Marlowe Granados

Refreshing and wry in equal measure, Happy Hour is an intoxicating novel of youth well spent. Isa Epley is all of twenty-one years old, and already wise enough to understand that the purpose of life is the pursuit of pleasure. She arrives in New York City for a summer of adventure with her best friend, one newly blond Gala Novak. They have little money, but that’s hardly going to stop them from having a good time.

In her diary, Isa describes a sweltering summer in the glittering city. By day, the girls sell clothes in a market stall, pinching pennies for their Bed-Stuy sublet and bodega lunches. By night, they weave from Brooklyn to the Upper East Side to the Hamptons among a rotating cast of celebrities, artists, Internet entrepreneurs, stuffy intellectuals, and bad-mannered grifters. Resources run ever tighter and the strain tests their friendship as they try to convert their social capital into something more lasting than precarious gigs as au pairs, nightclub hostesses, paid audience members, and aspiring foot fetish models. Through it all, Isa’s bold, beguiling voice captures the precise thrill of cultivating a life of glamour and intrigue as she juggles paying her dues with skipping out on the bill. Happy Hour is a novel about getting by and having fun in a world that wants you to do neither.

I’ve spoken about this book ad nauseam, but since it was my pick for this month’s book club it’s the freshest in my mind and therefore top of the list. A book by a party girl for the party girls, though knowing that Granados wrote this at 22 makes me extra self-conscious about my own writing. As someone going through a post-grad (quarter-life? I feel like I’m there already unless I live to see 100) crisis and feeling a bit lost, it’s comforting to read something that is young and fun and doesn’t shy away from that. Isa and Gala have a complex friendship that I think almost every girl can relate to, and they’re not too bothered about being “taken seriously,” whilst being clinically aware of the power they hold in their youth and femininity, with Isa pointing out that “You can’t buy charm, but you can certainly spend it, and if that’s true, you can certainly withhold it too.”

A quote if you’re not convinced:

Annabel caught my eye and waved me over to her. She introduced Gala and me to the critic “Isn’t it rare to find two people who like art without the intention of ever making it? I’m really wowed by people without artistic inclinations, aren’t you?” The critic peered over his glasses to take a good look at us. “How do you know they’re not just gathering material?”

I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts On Being a Woman by Nora Ephron

With her disarming, intimate, completely accessible voice, and dry sense of humor, Nora Ephron shares with us her ups and downs in "I Feel Bad About My Neck," a candid, hilarious look at women who are getting older and dealing with the tribulations of maintenance, menopause, empty nests, and life itself.

The woman who brought us "When Harry Met Sally"..., "Sleepless in Seattle", "You've Got Mail", and "Bewitched," and the author of best sellers "Heartburn," "Scribble Scribble," and "Crazy Salad," discusses everything -from how much she hates her purse to how much time she spends attempting to stop the clock: the hair dye, the treadmill, the lotions and creams that promise to slow the aging process but never do. Oh, and she can't stand the way her neck looks. But her dermatologist tells her there's no quick fix for that.

Ephron chronicles her life as an obsessed cook, passionate city dweller, and hapless parent. She recounts her anything-but-glamorous days as a White House intern during the JFK years ("I am probably the only young woman who ever worked in the Kennedy White House that the President did not make a pass at") and shares how she fell in and out of love with Bill Clinton - from a distance, of course. But mostly she speaks frankly and uproariously about life as a woman of a certain age.

Utterly courageous, wickedly funny, and unexpectedly moving in its truth telling, "I Feel Bad About My Neck" is a book of wisdom, advice, and laugh-out-loud moments, a scrumptious, irresistible treat.

This might just be my Hot Girl bible. I’ve talked about this book with my mom, her friends, my friends, my therapist and strangers on the internet. It’s my go-to birthday gift. The phrase “everything is copy” has firmly entered my lexicon and is used to justify almost everything I do, or pull me out of a spiral when I realise I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. I never thought I was a non-fiction girlie until I realised I was reading the wrong non-fiction. This is the right non-fiction.

A quote if you’re not convinced:

I can’t believe how real life never lets you down. I can’t understand why anyone would write fiction when what actually happens is so amazing.

Everything is copy

I am seven months pregnant with my second child, and I’ve just discovered that my second husband is in love with someone else. She too is married. Her husband telephones me. He’s the British ambassador to the United States. I’m not kidding. He happens to be the kind of person who tends to see almost everything in global terms. He suggests lunch. We meet outside a Chinese restaurant on Conneticut Avenue and fall into each other’s arms, weeping. “Oh Peter,” I say to him, “isn’t it awful?”

“It’s awful,” he says. “What’s happening to this country?”

I’m crying hysterically, but I’m thinking someday this will be a funny story.

Sula by Toni Morrison

Sula and Nel are two young black girls: clever and poor. They grow up together sharing their secrets, dreams and happiness. Then Sula breaks free from their small-town community in the uplands of Ohio to roam the cities of America. When she returns ten years later much has changed. Including Nel, who now has a husband and three children. The friendship between the two women becomes strained and the whole town grows wary as Sula continues in her wayward, vagabond and uncompromising ways.

I wrote my undergraduate dissertation on this book, so it reminds me of a Hot Girl Braniac moment. I was first introduced to Toni Morrison when I read Beloved in High School, but Sula was what really made me fall in love with her writing, and what I recommend to anyone starting their Toni Morrison love affair. I am someone who froths at the mouth for complex female friendships, and read this at a pretty pivotal time in my life where it resonated even more. If you’re a fan of My Brilliant Friend, you are going to love this.

And if you’re not yet convinced…

“We was girls together,” she said, as though explaining something

The Odd Woman and the City by Vivian Gornick

Set in New York, The Odd Woman and the City explores the rhythms, chance meetings, and ever-changing relationships of urban life that forge the sensibility of a fiercely independent woman.

Running through the book is Vivian Gornick’s animated exchange of more than twenty years with her best friend Leonard, as well as interactions with grocers, doormen, people on the bus, cross-dressers on the corner, and acquaintances by the handful.

A narrative collage that includes meditative pieces on the evolution of friendship over the past two centuries, in this memoir we encounter Gornick’s rich relationship with the ultimate metropolis.

Hot Girls love to read memoirs about other Hot Girls, and this is a fun and light one to add to your TBR list. Fans of Nora Ephron will be delighted by Gornick’s sharp and witty reflection on life, love and friendship. My copy is covered in margin notes and highlighter bleeding through the pages, with several exclamation points noting how someone managed to put into words feelings so familiar and yet so elusive.

In case you’re not convinced:

“Listen to us,” I say. “Two old women talking about lousy lovers.”

This time the man beside me laughs out loud. I turn and take a good long look at him.

“We’re sleeping with the same guys, right?” I say.

Yes, he nods. “And with the same ratio of satisfaction.”

For a split second the three of us look at one another, and then, all at once, we begin to howl. When the howling stops, we are all beaming. Together we have performed, and separately we have been recieved.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh

On the surface, our narrator has everything you could want in life. She's young, thin, pretty, a recent Columbia graduate and lives in an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan paid for, like everything else, by her inheritance.

But there is a vacuum in her life and she's got the perfect solution. She's going to take a year under sedation to relax and hide away from the world.
What could possibly go wrong?

I’ve got to be honest, though I was expecting to love this book (I felt like everyone and their cool older sister is obsessed) but my reaction was a bit lukewarm. However this is not a list of my favourite books, but instead a non-exhaustive list of what I would consider to be the Hot Girl canon, so I will let other Hot Girls read and decide for themselves. (I have no quotes for this as I read it three years ago and did not make a single note). I am however very much here for the contemporary Hot Girls writing, as I am sick of falling in love with someone’s writing and then having to ration their works knowing there’s no more where this came from.

Just Kids by Patti Smith

In 1967, a chance meeting between two young people led to a romance and a lifelong friendship that would carry each to international success never dreamed of. The backdrop is Brooklyn, Chelsea Hotel, Max's Kansas City, Scribner's Bookstore, Coney Island, Warhol's Factory and the whole city resplendent. Among their friends, literary lights, musicians and artists such as Harry Smith, Bobby Neuwirth, Allen Ginsberg, Sandy Daley, Sam Shepherd, William Burroughs, etc. It was a heightened time politically and culturally; the art and music worlds exploding and colliding. In the midst of all this two kids made a pact to always care for one another. Scrappy, romantic, committed to making art, they prodded and provided each other with faith and confidence during the hungry years--the days of cous-cous and lettuce soup.

Just Kids begins as a love story and ends as an elegy. Beautifully written, this is a profound portrait of two young artists, often hungry, sated only by art and experience. And an unforgettable portrait of New York, her rich and poor, hustlers and hellions, those who made it and those whose memory lingers near.

Another insanely popular Hot Girl book, and one that I took ages to read and then wondered what took me so long. I will continue to contribute to the hype and have recommended this to so many people in my life that I should start sending out affiliate links (that would be putting it nicely, I’ve been forcefully shoving this book down my friends’ throats, but I do it with love). Reading about Patti’s relationship with Robert had me ugly-crying in public. Whilst I usually think “let’s not put a label on things” is a line almost always accompanied by a degree of sleaziness or emotional detachment, their relationship transcends traditional boundaries and yet feels like one of the rawest and most honest depictions of love I have encountered. Also, everyone (and I do mean everyone) was just… hanging around in the 70s, so it also sometimes feels like some epic crossover episode where all of these iconic characters are walking in and out of the Chelsea Hotel like it’s no big deal.

And if you’re not convinced (but like seriously…this is the best book I read in 2024)

I bought stacks of book, but I didn’t read them. I taped sheets of paper to the wall, but I didn’t draw. I slid my guitar under the bed. At night, alone, I just sat and waited. Once again I found myself contemplating what I should be doing to do something of worth. Eveything I came up with seemed irreverent or irrelevant.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

Several days before Christmas 2003, John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion saw their only daughter, Quintana, fall ill. At first they thought it was flu, then pneumonia, then complete sceptic shock. She was put into an induced coma and placed on life support. Days later – the night before New Year’s Eve –the Dunnes were just sitting down to dinner after visiting the hospital when John suffered a massive and fatal coronary. In a second, this close, symbiotic partnership of 40 years was over. Four weeks later, their daughter pulled through. Two months after that, arriving at LA airport, she collapsed and underwent six hours of brain surgery at UCLA Medical Centre to relieve a massive hematoma.

This powerful book is Didion’s ‘attempt to make sense of the weeks and then months that cut loose any fixed idea I ever had about death, about illness … about marriage and children and memory … about the shallowness of sanity, about life itself’. The result is an exploration of an intensely personal yet universal experience: a portrait of a marriage, and a life, in good times and bad.

No Hot Girl book list would be complete without Didion, idolised and aestheticised by the thought daughters and Lit Girls alike (and probably some other trendy category I’ve probably overlooked, but forgive me, I’m on Instagram reels, not TikTok, and am therefore always late to the party). You can honestly take your pick from any of her works (and the same goes for the next author featured on this list), but this is my most recent read.

My copy is covered in highlighter streaks, but this is one of my favourites:

I could not count the times during the average day when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse did not end with his death.

Slow Days, Fast Company by Eve Babitz

No one burned hotter than Eve Babitz. Possessing skin that radiated "its own kind of moral laws," spectacular teeth, and a figure that was the stuff of legend, she seduced seemingly everyone who was anyone in Los Angeles for a long stretch of the 1960s and '70s. One man proved elusive, however, and so Babitz did what she did best, she wrote him a book. Slow Days, Fast Company is a full-fledged and full-bodied evocation of a bygone Southern California that far exceeds its mash-note premise. In ten sun-baked, Santa Ana wind-swept sketches, Babitz re-creates a Los Angeles of movie stars distraught over their success, socialites on three-day drug binges holed up in the Chateau Marmont, soap-opera actors worried that tomorrow's script will kill them off, Italian femmes fatales even more fatal than Babitz. And she even leaves LA now and then, spending an afternoon at the house of flawless Orange County suburbanites, a day among the grape pickers of the Central Valley, a weekend in Palm Springs where her dreams of romance fizzle and her only solace is Virginia Woolf. In the end it doesn't matter if Babitz ever gets the guy--she seduces us.

I’ll preface this by saying that if Eve Babitz has 1000 fans, I’m one of them. If she has one fan, it’s me. If she has no fans, I’m dead. I had a hard time choosing just one of her works to include in this list. She is outrageous in the best way, funny, sharp, brutally honest and able to put into words some of the unintelligible mess going on in my head (or being brave enough to say the shit we’re all thinking). One of the original Hot Girls, I’m equally obsessed with her fiction and non-fiction (Sex and Rage was the line that got me hooked) but if I were to recommend somewhere to start, this would be it.

And because I can’t be raving on my own…

The very next night I was having dinner with a fashionable young rich man who looked at me as I smoothed over some paté over some toast and said, “You better watch out with that stuff. It’ll make you fat.”

“Well gee,” I said to him, “there are so many perfect women, it’s just horrible you have to spend time sitting here with me.”

Arrogance and conceit and remarks like that one are much more fun than starving all the time. Once it is established that you are you and everyone else is merely perfcet, ordinary factory-like perfect… you can wreak all the havok you want.

And if you made it to the end, congratulations on your impressive attention span, social media hasn’t completely fried your brain just yet! Hopefully this can help you add a couple of books to your TBR list or you’ve found someone new to gush about your favourites (hi, let’s be friends!). I eat up Hot Girl books and am always looking for more reading recommendations, so let me know if there are any more you think make the cut (and who knows, maybe I’ll come up with the continuation of the Hot Girl literary canon)

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