Bad Influencer

A short story by Marcela Santos Brigida

Anguish (1878) by August Friedrich Schenck

“I’m going to tell you something that will blow your mind right now,” she said, staring firmly into the camera. She gestured slightly, her thumb and index finger coming together and revealing, in a calculated, incidental movement, her immaculate manicure: no cuticles or dryness in sight. I paused the video and clicked the full-screen button, then dragged the progress bar back to zero. The square outline, formed by four corner brackets, always made me think of spy movies with hitmen who took people out from miles away. A clean shot, no chance of escape. I played it again, glancing from the screen to the mirror to ensure I had my angles right. Her nail polish was an earthy tone; I’d call it orange, but I knew you’d probably find it listed under her affiliate links as terracotta chic or earthy paradise. Her makeup was precise, light, professional. Subtle pinks and a discreet cat-eye. Maisie was both inspirational and entirely nondescript. I paused it again, shut my laptop, tossed it into a tote bag, and put my shoes on. Then I realised I wasn’t doing the thing at all and had to start all over. Should I even bother? I sat on the bed, fished the laptop out again, pulled the lid open, and ran my hands through my hair. They felt greasy and a little gross.

I tapped the spacebar, and the replay started once more. “Everything. And I mean e-ve-ry-thin-gah is content. Your chores at home? Content. Your boring morning routine? Content. Pilates class? Content. Long hours of office work at your desk? Content. Content. Content. A coffee break. You know it.” She had an American accent, and though I knew she was based in California, I couldn’t tell you if that’s what she sounded like. Most Americans sounded the same to me, except for the usual suspects. But I guess that’s not the kind of thing you want to admit publicly. So provincial. She spoke with the sharpness you see in cheerleader movies and New York-based sitcoms. Weren’t those all filmed in LA studios anyway? Make of that what you will. As I wondered about mastering the accent, a notification pinged on my phone. I looked for it on the bed and realised it was tangled up somewhere under the duvet. Oh. It was from her. She had just uploaded a new short: “Stop playing nice and start being respected.” The outfit she wore in the thumbnail was the same one in the video I’d been watching. I tossed my phone aside, opened a new tab on the browser, loaded her channel, cranked up the volume, and hit play on the new short. I left the bathroom door open to listen while I peed but got distracted by my legs. I needed to shave, but that would mean a shower. I was already behind on the morning vlog thing. Content. Content. Content. I flushed, checked my stomach in the mirror, and inspected my face for blemishes. I squeezed a clogged pore, probably bruising it badly enough that a yellowish spot would present itself by the evening. Great.

“When you understand and truly embrace that, you’ll be a step ahead of everyone else already. There is absolutely nothing in your life that you can’t find a way to monetise. Embrace your own authority but make it likable too. TikTok, for instance, is all about being relatable. You need to ask yourself what about you is relatable and how you can present it in an entertaining way.” I opened a new tab and typed: “digital marketing short courses” to lacklustre results; I switched to ChatGPT: “Need new career direction; placement or cheap qualification options for women in their mid-20s.” The reply came in three seconds: “Exploring new career directions or qualifications can be both exciting and overwhelming. Here are some strategies and affordable options for women in their mid-twenties”. I pressed the bridge of my nose and replied without quite reading: “Can you please not reply in topics?” It then listed some websites, suggested I try LinkedIn, and asked me to share more information about my current qualifications.

“current qualifications fuck all.”

ChatGPT: “No worries—everyone starts somewhere. If you’re starting fresh, here’s a clear path to help you build qualifications and move forward.”

I had stopped reading after by the em dash. I closed the tab and picked up my phone to soothe myself by scrolling for a bit. Maybe I should record something, anything. I glanced at the mini tripod on the desk aimed at my bed. There was still time to turn things around. I could put on nice pyjamas, “wake up” in them, return with a mug from the kitchen, and “drink green tea” while smiling at the window. I grabbed my phone and looked up her name on LinkedIn. “And this is what tells me you’re a content creator. If I look at two, three, fifty TikTok grids in one afternoon, I’ll know who’s going to make it. I’ll be able to tell who’ll become an influencer and who’s going to be a flop. If I browse through your YouTube channel, I’ll know if you’re putting in the work. I’ll know if you’re waking up early to record your stories, to prepare and think strategically. The only question is: are you serious about your future?”

LinkedIn bored me fast. I already knew her profile by heart. It had all her companies listed and a bunch of testimonials about her being hardworking and driven, but also selfless and generous. I opened my own Instagram feed and weighed the possibility of just wiping the whole thing. There were nine unread messages, but as I clicked into my inbox, my stomach dropped. I slid into the Reels tab instead.

The Errors Tour: Taylor gets it wrong! Did you know you could make up to six digits a month with this simple strategy? Don’t believe us? Just look at this guy’s engagement stats before and after our mentorship! Subscribe NOW! Chappell Roan is a selfish bitch. Chappell Roan is giving mother. Timothée Chalamet, can I play my harmonica for you? What year does someone have to be born in to be considered old? 2000, probably, you’re ancient. Do you know which Glasgow park was branded a “Ratland” by disgusted locals? I am literally freaking out right now. I don’t know how this opossum got in to my house and up into my Christmas tree. Somebody help. Here’s my morning routine as a corporate job girlie.

I locked my phone without closing Instagram and tossed it on the bed. It bounced and hit the ground with a thud. As I reached for it with my cheek pressed against the wall, I wondered if this would be content worthy at all. Girl, no; woman throws phone, it doesn’t go according to plan. Ha ha. Gotta love a clumsy girlie. It’d go nowhere, and yet it was all I could think about, making up scenarios in my head. I began addressing myself like Maisie would. Not I, only you. You’d make up videos. You’d give decluttering tips. You’d do cozy vlogs without showing your face. You’d share controversial opinions and let people wage wars in the comments. Ideally, someone would obsess over you and your effortless cool. Then she’d look in the mirror and begin imitating the things you did in the videos. Maybe that’s what would make her famous. The girl obsessed with you, more competent than you at being you. She’d send you DMs that would be flagged as spam or lie forever alongside other hidden requests. People would call her creepy and tell her to get a life, but they’d follow her anyway because they want to see the drama unfold. They’d report her for impersonation. She’d pick up her phone and record a video instead of making lists. And that’s what Maisie would call entertainment. Finally, even the stalker would move on to other things, and people would forget she was ever copying you at all. She’d reply to emails about partnerships and business opportunities. She’d start a wellness brand. She would.

*

I draw the curtains all the way, hold my phone up, angle it towards my face, and begin recording. I smile and stretch, hiding a yawn with my left hand and smiling with my eyes closed. I stop recording, replay it, add a lo-fi track as a background, and post it to my stories before I have a chance to second-guess it. Poppy calls, I don’t pick up. She sends me an audio note on WhatsApp, and I tell myself I will check it after taking a shower but then forget about it entirely. I spend the rest of the day eating in bed and not finishing a single episode of Frasier. I go back to Netflix, load an episode of Gilmore Girls, set it to full screen, take a photo - not even a grid-worthy one - and write cozy Sunday vibes over it. Everything is content.

It’s 6 a.m. now, and you will do it today, Maisie says in my head. Wash your face with auto-play enabled on TikTok. Here’s three steps you should take to avoid cortisol face. You will bring your charger and plug the phone on the socket to film continuously while you work. Type, type, type. Take a gulp of water from that baby-pink Stanley. Living life cinematically. Instant makeover: cut your hair in the mall salon during your lunch break. YOLO, namaste. Do something stupid, like spilling coffee on your work blouse. Clumsy girlie vibes again! Big pharma has lied to you your whole life. Wait. They really want you to believe that you can give your children literal poison through chemicals in formula but will lie to you that they can’t drink raw milk. No, seriously, wait.

Earbuds off.

Eva has been saying something for a while. She’s talking to me and won’t wait even though it’s obvious I haven’t been listening. She is wearing silk, and that’s real silk for sure. One of these outfits cost 400 pounds and the other one cost 4.700. Can you tell which is which? She tells me to send her an email by two o’clock about the meeting that we rescheduled. It takes me a few seconds to catch up and then she looks quizzically at me before asking if everything’s ok. There’s a sceptical look somewhere in there as well. Sure, everything’s grand. End scene. You record the latter part of this interaction, and she doesn’t notice because you’re always holding my phone anyway. Film yourself typing some more. Film yourself sitting and getting up from your desk. Film yourself looking at some documents with a crease between your eyes and then smile and say something to any random person. Show off your sunny disposition. Good girl.

I rewatch everything on the bus home, select a few clips, crop, cut, edit, add the suggested audio, and post it to TikTok. I will not check how many views it has at all. I put my phone on sleep mode for the rest of the ride but hang it on the tripod as soon as I come in so that it records me coming to and from the bathroom. Then I take it in there and record my nightly skincare routine. I lie down and delete emails without opening any of them but refuse Gmail’s suggestion to unsubscribe from the M&S newsletter, which I haven’t opened in five months.

Poppy has sent me another audio note, but the notification is a catch in my throat. I don’t listen to it or any of the others. It’s inconsiderate, if you think about it. Just write it down and I’ll get back to you whenever I can. I am busy. I check Teams again, but there’s not much going on there. I begin watching today’s video from Maisie: “5 simple habits that ENDED my procrastination”. I pause it by “habit number 3: practicing mindfulness” and scroll through reels to avoid TikTok. I let the phone fall on my chest and wonder about Tinder again but open Reddit to discourage me from acting on that. When did it become fashionable for celebrities to be in so many commercials? Is it just me, or have there been a lot of celebrities in commercials since the 2020s? I click on the still of Paul Rudd holding a massive yellow bag of Lay’s. CheckMeOutBoss declares Idc what any of you say, it’s still tacky as hell. Nearly-Inevitable2006 says Ryan Reynolds annoys me now, since he’s in like every ad I see and hear. I take a screenshot, add a lol and send it to Mum on WhatsApp. She replies instantly with a crying laughing emoji. She begins typing, and I slide back into Reddit because there’s zero chance it won’t be about Poppy.

The Tinder sub has nearly 6 million members. Been talking nonstop for a week leading up to our date, and this happens. Am I crazy?? asks juli2004. The bar is in hell, adds AgnesBoz_, enclosing a screenshot from a man’s profile that says I go crazy from A women who just wants to lay in bed allday an let me cater to her needs..sexual or whatever xxx.That one I share with my friend Carla. I add: “I will gladly die alone.” The one that shows a picture of a man hanging upside down in a toilet stall under the heading, I got back on Tinder 2 hours ago and I already regret it seals it for me, and I delete Bumble as well for good measure. I wonder if it’s weird that this is my main mode of communication with my friends, and then I think this could be my thing: I could turn these into TikToks, maybe? I could wipe my account and start fresh with one-liners and parodies. I could do funny. I think about Maisie and wonder how I could make brain rot and hopelessness entertaining enough and commit to doing it forever. I go to sleep but toss and turn for at least three hours; I keep picking up my phone to add new topics to my plan in the Notes app.

It’s 6 a.m. now and I want to die. I slept on my face and can see the pillowcase imprinted into my cheek. There is no way in hell I will make relatable content out of this. I brush my teeth, contemplate the possibility of deleting it all, allow the panic and the embarrassment to take over. There are more DMs on Instagram, but only 2,458 views on last night’s TikTok. That’s a failure. I type “Am I…” into the search bar. TikTok predicts the rest of the sentence. Weird, yeah, but so what; Millennial or Gen Z; Different; The problem; Wrong song; Dreaming. Go on, then. “Am I sh…” Am I shadowbanned? How to get out of 200-view jail. How to get out of 450-view jail. There are too many explanations and all of them point to me not being interesting enough, so too many people are scrolling past it and the algorithm doesn’t see the point of suggesting it to anyone else. I lock my phone and go get dressed. I look it up again on the bus but what if the lady sitting next to me sees it and thinks I am pathetic and too old for this. I put it away. I pick it back up. I film the view from the window for a few seconds and toss it in my bag. I pick it up again just as I’m about to alight because I’ll probably still need the footage. I know what Maisie would say. TikTok doesn’t have it out for you. If you’re not getting views, your videos are simply not good enough.

I think about her terracotta nails and wonder whether she would call me a quitter if she looked at my feed. I try on the kind of insults she would have for me. Lack of discipline. Boring. Irregular posting. No personal brand. No value to your audience’s life. I’m at my desk now. My train of thought gets interrupted by a Teams ping. Eva’s secretary has scheduled a meeting for us. I make sure to film my puzzled reaction and then record myself asking Zara, the girl who sits across from me, if she also got it. She hasn’t. I wonder if Eva would sack me and if so, how I could record it happening. People do it all the time, but it’s trickier in a face-to-face meeting. It might be nothing, but she looked disgusted the other day. I wonder where she bought that silk blouse and whether I could afford it.

I try to plan the recording as I go down the stairs at lunchtime, but instead of picking up my sandwich at the diner two streets down, I cross the road and walk two miles to the bookshop where Carla works. She’s right there behind the counter in her navy-blue Irish-knit jumper, ever the Hallmark movie leading lady. She smiles, of course she does, and says, “Babes, where have you been!” I remind her I texted her a Reddit screenshot just last night, and she says, “Yes, but that doesn’t count! It’s like we never see you anymore. Is everything ok? How’s things with your sister?” That’s not the point, so I browse through the books on the second-hand shelves and try to steer us away from Poppy. “Oh, you know. We’re not talking that much, everyone’s so busy.” Carla smiles, “And…?” “And what?”, I ask. “Come on, you look like there’s something you want to say. I’ve been following your Instagram, you know. You’re blowing up! I like everything. But so does everyone.” I am not, of course, but to someone like Carla anything bigger than your nan and half a dozen losers following you must mean you’ve made it big. She hardly even updates her bookshop’s grid. “I know you do. Look.”, I say, and I’m sure she can hear there’s a pleading somewhere in my voice. “I think maybe I’ll get the sack today.” She looks surprised, that’s not where she thought this was going at all. “What, why?”

I tell her all about last Friday. She makes an effort not to react at all. She looks at me sideways for a beat. She comes over, holds my upper arms with her palms, applies some pressure, and says it will be alright. I get the sense that she wants me to be on my way now but am not quite sure if it’s paranoia or just what it is. I consider asking her to film something in here, maybe just a shot of her with her back to me, arranging things on the shelf behind the counter, but I feel awkward and just leave. I say my goodbyes, tell her I’ll be due back soon anyway, so I must dash. She is disappointed, I think, but lets me go with a hug. Another pointless conversation about nothing.

I feel better outside. I power-walk on my way back with my earbuds on without listening to anything. All I hear are the sounds echoing inside of me. My breathing, my jaw, my quick, shallow breaths and the impact of each step. There will be a new episode of Algorithm Approved out today and grab my phone to open Spotify. I look to my right and realise how cool I must look, crossing the road wearing my shades and hot pink trench. I’m actually such a bad bitch. I will be alright. I almost hope Eva will sack me. Then I’ll be free to do what I like.

That’s when it hits me.

There’s no break, no warning sign. I don’t know. It was either a biker or a cyclist, but it was sure something. I don’t know. He calls me a fucking stupid bitch, and I feel it in flashes. I swear I don’t know. The asphalt scraping the side of my left leg, both my feet crushed, and then my head dims. I don’t. Before I black out, I realise I won’t need to find a way to film myself talking to Eva - not today. I hear some voices and a car braking, but then it’s all white noise and not my problem at all as I blissfully close my eyes.