Julie Chan Is Dead

by Liann Zhang

I’m addicted to the way I grow hateful. Crave how it fills me with vitriol. Being angry and envious is better than being empty.

Recognizing problems is pointless when you have little motivation to fix them. And finding motivation is impossible when the mere idea of existing feels like a punishment.

Social media is the biggest thief of time but it’s also an impossibly addictive form of escape.

I cry, not for Chloe’s death. I cry for my loss. Grief for that person I could have been.

But social media is all about manufactured authenticity, a performative and controlled identity to appeal to the public.

It’s easy to forget that genuine good can come from our interconnectedness. It’s there for people who need it. If you’re lucky, it can open up the world.

It takes keen talent to write something less profound than the back of a shampoo bottle.

I start wondering if cardio classes are the elite’s answer to self-harm.

Is this what it feels like to be an addict? If so, I think I might be addicted to the refreshing animation on Instagram. The sound of notifications. The sight of views going up. The support of my Chloe Crew. The rush of compliments and praise at my fingertips. I’m itching for it—the fix of social media. Without it, I’m empty, a void. An iPad kid without her iPad.

How can I tell what’s real without a record?

“I’ll never be applauded for mediocrity because I’m not a stereotypically beautiful white girl.”