No Link in Bio

Dear Whoever it May Concern (A.K.A. Absolutely Fucking No One),

I am writing to formally resign from giving a fuck.

You’re having a bad day?

I will no longer reach out into the void to ask how you are.

You never asked how I was.

You assumed I was fine. I wasn’t. I’m not.

But I smiled, didn’t I? So you got away with it.

You want me to (fill in the blank) ________

No.

I’m busy.

I’m tired.

And frankly, I can’t be arsed.

Because you can’t.

So why should I?

I’m done being your human emotional support dog.

I’m tired of your needy crawling. Your “read me” post-it-notes. Your pretend support, reserved only for when you want eyes on your drivel.

I’m done with the fake flattery. The million posts of you.

The propaganda to hide your mediocrity.

Take a minute. Actually read something.

You might learn.

But you don’t care about that.

You chase hearts like a fly chases shit.

They’re pretty much the same though, aren’t they? At least flies feed something. You? Just the algorithm.

You don’t care. You just want your name out there. Everywhere. Anywhere. Anything for that sad little hit of validation. Monetisation. Whatever. A pat on the back from a stranger. Does it make you feel good? Important? Like someone, anyone gives a damn?

I’m tired of the curated collapses. Sadness. Vignettes framed just right for the empaths who never learned the world’s just an arsehole run by trillionaires who wipe with dollars and bonds.

You post your breakdowns at peak time, add a sepia filter, and slap on someone else’s poetry. No credit, of course.

You wouldn’t be documenting it. On Fake book or else where.

You’d be living it. Surviving it. Bleeding from it, through the nose. Banging your head into a wall.

You share grief that isn’t yours and facts that aren’t real. You're not informed. You're infected. A disease that’s gone viral.

But hey. It got 243 likes. You win the losing game of life. Roll the dice. 6. That’s what matters, right?

Working is for the dumb. Hustling is for the winners.

They’re not healing. Or needing. They’re mining for misery and engagement metrics. Trauma’s a trend and they’re ahead of the curve. Hashtags and muted aesthetics designed for a dopamine ding. A heart from a stranger. Begging for cash. Support or whatever inane attention grab they’ve got going on this week. And next.

You think we don’t know. Don’t see that when real stuff happens. Shit hits the fan. You’re nowhere to be seen. Vanished like a bug in Meta’s code. Broke. You won’t call or check in.

You wouldn’t even notice If I were dead. You’d just ‘like’ the announcement with a passive-aggressive thumb or send a sad face, more apparent. Just so people know you’re up on the game. Maybe leave a sad message, if you could be arsed. Pretend that you cared. That you knew me at all.

You’d type a goodbye. Make sure your ‘followers’ can see. What a tragedy. So young. So fun. (I’m not fun BTW) You never knew me so well. But that’s on you. Not me.

You just consume content to peddle your own. Because that’s all people are now, isn’t it? Background noise for your own branded voice.

No voice at all.

I’m not content.

Dead or alive.

I’m not “on brand.”

I’m not going to caption my collapse for you.

There’s no link in bio.

No discount code for devastation.

I’m done. In and out.

This isn’t a temporary leave of absence.

I won’t be back tomorrow, pretending it never happened.

Give-a-fucks restored. All’s fine in the long run. And the short.

This is full-on resignation, no fucks at all.

No two weeks’ notice.

No gentle handover.

No final team brunch on my dime.

I’m keeping my fucks to myself from now. And to my wife of course. And my cats who never did a damn paw wrong. And a very select few (maybe).

They’ll live in a jar marked “For People Who Deserve It.”

And I shall use them sparingly. Like honey.

I will no longer answer texts from people who only message me when their life goes up in flames and expect me to bring marshmallows for the fire. I will no longer reach out just to check you’re OK. Instead, I will drink overpriced tea in the back garden with my legs draped on the table, toes dangling off the edge. Peace. I will read a whole book without recommending it online. I will delete group chats without a second thought. I will spend hours doing nothing, and I won’t explain it to anyone at all.

I will rest. Rage. Write. Heal. In private.

Without hashtags.

Without applause.

Without you.

Best of luck with your future emotional outsourcing.

I won’t be around.

If I die. Please do me a solid. Keep your ‘fucks’ to yourself. Tributes are for the flesh. Not for the bones.

Yours (Un) Regrettably.

Fucked and out,

Celia Back in Underland