Edit my upcoming YouTube video? Check.
After the funeral yesterday, work is the only thing that makes sense. If I stop working for a moment, the exhaustion will set in. The bomb Tanya set off on Micah and me will consume my thoughts.
Ugh, Micah.
What the hell was Tanya thinking?
Actually, I don’t think I want to know.
Up until now, I was doing a wonderful job of barely acknowledging Micah’s existence. Him being in my inner circle had no bearing on my life whatsoever, but now I have no choice but to acknowledge him. Tanya’s death should’ve broken the invisible connection between us, but instead it’s dug up the shallow grave I buried us in. Now, I have to figure out how to present thesame indifference toward him while spending an absurd amount of time together.
My phone rings, and an involuntary sigh runs through my body when my mom’s contact photo appears.
Answering her call is the last thing I need right now. Michelle Jenkins is a lot of things: a badass scientist, a musical connoisseur, a history nerd. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I know what a capable woman she is. One thing she’s not capable of? Letting me deflect.
She thinks the only way of coping is dealing with things head-on, so she’ll push and push until your dam breaks. This dam of mine has been carefully constructed. Years of layering each concrete block of secrets and shame have ensured my survival. I’m not ready to give her a peek at the other side.
The phone rings for what feels like an eternity until her photo finally disappears, letting me catch my breath.
While I’m navigating back to the to-do list Nisha left in my email, another notification pops up on my phone. A text from Micah.
Micah: Hey I know yesterday was a lot. I’m sure I’m not high on your list of confidants but I’m here if you need to talk
Ha! That’s probably my first genuine laugh of the day. Not high on my list of confidants. That list is incredibly short to begin with; losing Tanya has made it so I can count the names on one hand. Micah lost his place on that list six years ago, and if I have my way, he’ll never find his way back on it.
Leaving him on delivered, I reopen my to-do list.
I still have to decide whether I want to partner with this new makeup company. All their products are vegan and their packaging looks like different desserts. Their blush sticks are shaped like chocolate truffles, theireyeshadow palettes like ice cream cones, with shades named for different ice cream flavors. The tagline isIndulge in yourself.
They want me to be a sponsored partner, but I never agree to partnerships without trying the products first and researching the company. I’ll be damned if I attach my name to a brand with shitty products and even shittier leaders.
I keep all my PR packages that I haven’t opened yet in my spare bedroom, so I head there to find the one from Indulgence Cosmetics. Their unique packaging had already sold me and the company seems to be on the up-and-up based on everything Nisha and I found. The last thing to do is figure out if their stuff is any good.
Pulling out the eyeshadow palettes, blush, and bronzer they sent along with my tried-and-true makeup products from other brands, I set up my vanity to record a video.
One hour later, I have a face beat to the gods and I know for a fact that I want to partner with this brand, but I also know I’m going to have to rerecord the entire thing.
I hated every second of recording that. I don’t even have to watch it back to know how horrible it turned out and that no amount of editing is going to fix it.
I blow out a harsh breath. If there’s one word I could use to describe my content lately, what would it be?
Stale.
It’s just … stale. It feels like I’m ripping myself off over and over again, and though I know that’s somewhat the point—as influencers we’re not reinventing the wheel here—it shouldn’t be this dry.
When I first decided to take a step back from runway and editorial modeling and focus more on working for myself, it was exhilarating. I could make the content I wanted how I wanted to without having to run it by a million other people first. I could be my own person.
Now, it’s exhausting.
I want to still love it. I do still love it, but sometimes when I look at myself at thirty-one years old next to all the twentysomethings who are shaking shit up on a daily basis, I don’t feel like I compare.
Damn, so much for work being the only thing that makes sense.
I switch focus to anything on my list involving my tequila brand, Promesa. That’s much more manageable right now.
My fingers flinch at the sound of my phone ringing yet again. The face on the screen settles my nerves a bit though.
Omari Hughes is a friend of mine. A friend I see naked whenever the mood strikes, but a friend nonetheless.
