Baby's First Substack
AKA, a state of the union of sorts
One of my New Years’ Resolutions this year was to write more, and to write for myself. As a newly-minted Letterboxd FuckGirl, AMC Stubs #1 Fan (put me on the fucking payroll, I’ve influenced 6 and counting), aspiring Creative Director, former DC resident, someone who ACTUALLY makes the recipes she saves on social media, Astrology whore, member of my local art museum, and Music Industry Professional, I’d like to think I know a thing or two about what’s going on in the world.
This place will be an ever-flowing stream of what I’m cooking, album analyses, cultural talks, rants about the ever-evolving political landscape, movie reviews, creative ideas, and more. I’m committing myself to spending 1 day per week in my neighborhood boba shop with the barista whose color-coded straws are deluding me into thinking that he loves me, writing about something I can’t get enough of. Amid the chaos of it all, this will be a constant.
2025 so far has been a whirlwind, and the Age of Aquarius is showing herself out LOUD. I ventured back from snowy Connecticut to sunny Los Angeles on December 30th to realize I did not, in fact, have New Year’s Eve off like I was told back in November from my manager at the time. I said fuck it (I am not going to Inglewood at 9am) and spent the next day fighting 3 hours of jet lag and sleeping in until noon. I tried on the Cider dresses I’d bought and ended up going with the sparkliest one after consulting the group chat (currently named MIMI MIMI HONK SHOO HONK SHOO, at the time named 50 Shades of Fucked Up) for inspiration and words of affirmation (“cunt” “this is the hottest thing you’ve ever put on” “suffocate me with those sequins”) and somehow pulled myself together to make it only 30 minutes late for dinner.
After a round of tequila shots on our waiter and our first stop completed, we made it up to a friend-of-a-friend’s house in the hills. As we entered in our short, see-through, and revealing fits, we realized that this was a family party. We’re greeted by a sea of 100+ people we’ve never met, including children running past our just-covering-our-asses skirts. Looks of horror ensued, jackets were tightened, and we searched for the mysterious friend-of-a-friend we’d yet to recognize. We go down the stairs to a view of all of Los Angeles, and are greeted with a group playing Rage Cage and another taking out Karaoke microphones. I’m at home. For a group that ends every night out at our favorite karaoke dive bar, we’ve suddenly never felt more comfortable.
It is then where it starts to get hazy. Shots are flowing, there’s Trader Joe’s premade mimosas being poured into cups, and the CBD gummy I’d taken to calm my social anxiety is catching up to me. I vaguely remember some Keyisha Cole, Kendrick Lamar, and that’s when it comes back into focus like That’s So Raven coming out of a vision - SuperBass is on the “up next” screen. “Hand me the microphone” I say with an outstretched hand. I lock in. Suddenly 13-year-old-Abi takes over my body. She knows every word. She knows every adlib. She recites the dance moves she made up to the lyrics 15 years ago. Everyone is in awe, or rather, doesn’t know what to do when she bows. Anya grabs the microphone next - we’re duetting Defying Gravity somehow. I wake up to videos of us back-to-back, adding in the stage play’s lines, battle cry-ing as if our lives depended on it. We’re sweating. We’ve cleared the room.
We take some air and get some pictures before breaking up the group and the remainder moseying down to our next stop on the adventure. Through the fog, we venture down to the bar just in time for 11:30 to get situated for the countdown. The club side of the building is closed for the night, but we make do with drunkenly buying each other drinks (tequila pineapple, mai tais, and rounding it out with my signature tequila ginger) until we run into another group of friends. We all convene in the smoking area to do the final countdown, cheers-ing and blowing into the noisemakers they’d mistakenly given us, until we give each other New Year’s kisses and start the customary “I love you guys so much!!!!!!” “there’s no one I’d rather ring in the New Year with!!!!!”s. 30 minutes later, we’re splitting off again, and Anya and I end the night with life’s simple pleasure, a drunk cigarette and furiously trying to air out my studio apartment, before Alyssa picks her up and we recount the night.
New Year’s Eve is either my most or least favorite holiday, depending on how I’m spending it. In 2023, I spent it eating raspberries (Ralph’s was out of grapes) under my kitchen island (we didn’t have a kitchen table). I bumped my head trying to get up. 2020 I spent sobbing over my life being turned upside down (a story for another time). 2019 I spent drunkenly kissing my girls’ cheeks and slapping the bag in a college apartment. Time flies between New Years’ cheers.
But upon reflecting on the energy of what 2025 will bring - I think it’s a good one. Despite evacuating the devastating LA Wildfires (see Emily For President’s page for that forthcoming information), job hunting again, wearing masks outside like it’s 2020, and scraping by to make rent, I do think that 2025 has a bright and creative energy. I’ve already worked towards my resolution of writing regularly (I will not beat myself up about missing days in my journal), creative directing projects (presave he’s great…but why? out February 7), spending less time on social media (RIP TikTok…she’s still dead to me because I refuse to redownload her and am instead on the time suck app that is Two Dots), and not letting anxiety control me (hellooooooo sharing my thoughts with the world). Here’s to making it fucking work, despite the odds.
Obsessed w u