*No, the words in the title have nothing to do with each other. If the following entry is confusing, I’m not sorry.

There seems to be a certain sense of performativity with reading classics these days. Maybe this thought stems from the fact that I’m an English major, with an emphasis on Literature to boot, yet there hasn’t been a single day when someone hasn’t posted a picture of a classic, perhaps posing with a glass of wine or lying on the beach. And each time I think, I know (of, let’s be honest) this person. When did they start reading such books?

The urge to gatekeep is larger than ever, even though I extensively judge those who’ve never bothered reading a classic. The line is a fine one and I’m constantly teetering on it, hypocrite that I am. I’m guilty too. Uploading a story of Les Misérables in Leh and then setting it aside for the entirety of the trip. I still haven’t gotten past the introduction. Who gave me the right to build my own pedestal and ivory tower and gaze down on others? And why are classics the metric? 

Maybe the root of this judgement is feeling like this is the only factor separating me from most people. It’s become increasingly easier to distinguish the readers from those who don’t. Read, that is. If the em dash is considered to be a byproduct of ChatGPT, the last time they picked up a book, it was probably authored by Elisabetta Dami. Sound unfamiliar? That’s the voice and mind behind the pseudonym Geronimo Stilton. Ha. More than this, the em dash has turned into the primary way of singling out whether a text is originally produced, effectively eliminating it from my dictionary lest I get called out for something I didn’t do, erring on the side of safety. 

A moment of silence. I really did love you. Come back.

I’ve been told countless, several, numerous times that my writing is too long, repetitive, and can be said with significantly less words. That is true; however, my oral communication is so limited, compensation occurs through the written media. In my college career thus far, professors have heard my voice more than anyone my age. Is that sad? 

Everyone always seems to be in the know and it’s presented to me fait accompli. Not necessarily a bad thing, I’ve come to find out. Yes, everybody keeps walking and you’re on the ground trying to figure out how to get up in the first place, but contending with that fact has its benefits. If no one makes plans with you, there’s no hassle in cancelling; if you’re the last person in the chain of events to discover how x did this absolutely insane thing at y and now z is so mad!! it just saves you the headache of offering advice that falls on deaf ears. 

If any one of the hiring managers is actually reading my portfolio and you’re actually on this paragraph, there is a bright side!! I have so much (so much) time to give you!! Please take it!!

Yes, my website is turning into something that resembles a journal (this is not a cry for help) but I’m not mad about it. Does this mean the (somewhat) loyal 82 anonymous viewers a month are vaguely my friends? This is my performative corner, where I pretend to (and am failing at) be a largely-sane-person-who-has-her-life-together. You see that little x on the leftmost corner of this tab? Yes, that. That’s your way out. 

The same way I perceive reading to be performative for Everyone Who Isn’t Me, that’s what social interaction is for me. If you accidentally/somehow manage to catch me deeply engaged in conversation with someone who isn’t one of two people [insert names], congratulations!! You just scored front row seats to my stage-play. Am I not great? Yes!!! (No, I am not lonely, stop asking me that).

I’m joking (slightly). I’m doing what everyone says I should. Going out!! Meeting people (by choice)!! Trying out new hobbies (one, and quite bad at that too)!! The downside of always looking on the bright side is that there is none. I promise I’m trying so so hard to find one. Unfortunately, I do have to report I have, thus far, found none. What’s the worst outcome? Something doesn’t work out the way it already wasn’t going to and I’m in a better mood than not? 

Dear Diary/Journal (? Do you greet a journal?),

2025 is coming to an end. Fait accompli sums up this year. My list of wants is longer than before; the downfall is greater. So much to reflect on but I’m so tired. I like to tell myself I’ve done my reflection as things happened and I’m left with only room to grow. There is more to be gained from optimism but I would hate to lose the realism that so firmly foregrounds who I am. 

In 2025, I learned: 

• how to survive villainization 
• how to make it through the Worst Job Ever™
• how to throw ungodly tantrums that threaten everything 
• how to scrape myself off the pavement (because there isn’t anyone else to do so)
• how to (mostly) always seek the brighter side 
• last, but not least, though the most important: knitting one row!!** 

If performativity makes me happier and gets me everything I want, I think I’ll be performative. Struggle through the discomfort of speaking/socializing/puttingyourselfoutthere until it stops feeling performative and starts feeling real. 

2025, you gave me more than I could’ve asked for.

Signing off for the year!! (Probably not. I have more to say)

**if someone knows how to knit, please text me.

or if you are genuinely here after reading my resume, hire me!!

See you 2026!

Love,

A Not-So-Performative Journaler