I feel like a total fucking fraud. It’s 2:14 AM and I’m sitting in my kitchen eating cold pasta straight out of the Tupperware because I forgot to eat while I was busy arguing with some random guy on Twitter about rent control. This is stupid and I know it’s not a huge deal in the grand scheme of things, but I’m actually shaking while I type this because I’m so goddamn annoyed with myself. I’m 24 years old, I have zero health insurance, and I spent the last three hours making a "Calls to Action" graphic for the local election while I haven't even bothered to register in this district since I moved here eight months ago. It’s the discrepancy that kills me. On a screen, I look like a fucking saint. I have people in my DMs asking for advice on where to donate or how to start organizing their workplaces, and I give it to them with this detached, authoritative tone—as if I’m actually out there in the mud doing the work. In reality? I’m terrified to leave my apartment half the time because if I’m not tethered to my laptop, I’m not making money. No work means no rent. No rent means I’m back in my parents' basement. Reasons why I am a massive hypocrite: 1. I posted a sixteen-slide thread today about the "ethics of sustainable consumption" while wearing a shirt from a fast-fashion brand I bought because it was $6 and I’m broke. 2. I have a "Support Local Libraries" sticker on my laptop, but I haven't stepped foot in the one two blocks away because I’m too busy paying for a goddamn subscription service I can’t afford. 3. I yelled at my roommate for not recycling a soda can, then spent the afternoon ghosting a community garden signup because it "didn't fit my schedule." 4. I tell everyone online to "show up for their neighbors" but I don't even know the names of the people living in 4B. Last week was the peak of my bullshit. There was this big push for a neighborhood clean-up—something I’ve been screaming about online for months. "RECLAIM OUR SPACES!" I typed, my fingers flying. "WE ARE THE CHANGE!" Then Saturday morning rolled around. I heard the shovels hitting the asphalt outside. I could see them through my window—actual people, older folks, teenagers, getting their hands dirty in the heat. I just closed my blinds. I sat in the dark and did four hours of transcription work for a tech company that probably treats its employees like shit. I needed the hundred bucks. I prioritized eighty cents a minute over the "community" I claim to love. My neighbor, Pete, saw me later that afternoon when I finally crept out to get a Red Bull. He was covered in sweat and dirt, looking absolutely exhausted but actually... present. He asked if I’d seen the flyers for the park. I lied right to his face. I told him I had a "massive professional obligation"—which I guess is what we’re calling $15-an-hour freelance hell now—but I made it sound like I was doing something VITAL. I told him I’d "boost the signal" on my socials so more people would show up next time. Pete just looked at me for a second, really looked at me, and said, "We didn't need a signal, kid. We needed someone to help move the mulch." I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that I’m DROWNING. I wanted to explain that I don't have the luxury of spending four hours in the sun because if I miss one email from my main editor, they’ll find some other desperate grad to write their 500-word SEO blogs for pennies. I’m a gig worker. I’m a "content creator." I’m a fucking hamster on a wheel. But instead of saying any of that, I just went inside and posted a picture of the sunset with a caption about "local grassroots power." I’m a joke. Everything is a performance. I’m so angry at the fact that I’ve turned my beliefs into a goddamn brand because it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I have any control over my life. If I can get 500 shares on a post about universal healthcare, I can pretend I’m not terrified of the weird pain in my shoulder that I can’t afford to get checked out. I can pretend I’m part of something bigger than just a girl in a stained t-shirt trying to figure out how to pay the electric bill before they shut it off. My girlfriend came over tonight and saw the tab open on my laptop—another infographic in progress. She didn't even say anything, she just sighed. That sigh was worse than a fight. It was the sound of someone who knows I’m full of shit. She spends her weekends at the food bank while I spend mine "curating resources" on Canva. We didn't talk for the rest of the night. I just sat here, staring at the blue light, waiting for someone—anyone—to comment on my latest post so I could feel like a "good person" for five seconds. I’m going to post it anyway. The new graphic. I’ve already spent two hours on the font and the color palette. It’s about "the urgent necessity of local engagement." I’ll hit send, I’ll get the dopamine hit, and tomorrow morning I’ll hide in my apartment when the doorbell rings because it might be the landlord or it might be Pete asking for help again. I’m a coward. I’m a hypocrite. And I’m probably going to do the exact same thing next week because I don't know how to stop being this person. I just need to get through this month. I just need to make enough to cover the car insurance. Then I’ll be the person I pretend to be. Maybe. Probably not. Fucking whatever.