3-6-22

A DBT exercise with my cyberbully, auto-cannibalism, and an evening with Queen Rania Al Abdullah.

Mar 07, 2022

😡😭ENEMY OF THE WEEK: MYSELF? PATTI? BOTH?😭😡

Last Saturday at my best friend’s birthday party, I was drunk and hungry and convinced that the magic mushroom chocolate I’d ingested earlier was not working due to my high dosage of Lexapro. In a moment of repose, I checked Instagram to find the following comment on a months-old post of me receiving a strange and wonderful gift during my family’s ceremonial “grab bag” opening on Christmas Eve. The commenter’s name was Patti.

What ensued over the next several days became interesting exercise for me in dealing with minor Instagram fame and the hatred of strangers. In re-examining my digital interactions with Patti, I’ll be using a loose rubric of Radically Open Dialectical Behavior Therapy (RO DBT), something I explore to varying degrees each week in therapy.

For those who don’t know, RO DBT is a type of psychological treatment developed specifically for people with problems of overcontrol. Readers, I know what you’re thinking: “Overcontrol? Carrie is out of control!” While this is often true, I exist at both poles, depending on the context. Though I’ve made improvements since high school, I exhibit traits of overcontrol such as:

Suspiciousness (everyone is out to get me); hypervigilance re: potential threats (overanalyzing neutral interactions as negative/catastrophic)
Rigid rule-governed behavior (if I don’t work out today, the sky will come falling down); high moral certitude (this bad person has bad values)
Insincere expressions of emotion (sometimes I act angry over things that don’t actually bother me because I’m bored or want attention)
A feeling of being different from others (few people understand me); frequent social comparisons (this person is more successful/smarter/hotter than I am); high envy and bitterness (I hate that person for being better than I am and I hope they’re unhappy).

The post in question showed me opening a John-John Kennedy commemorative doll that my stepsister’s boyfriend Dylan had gotten me. It really was a fascinating object to behold and a thing of Americana (a link to the doll in question can be found here). As context, I am not one of those tragic Kennedy-obsessed people (a fandom that has significant crossover with the British royal family and seems to include mostly women over 50). My interest is specifically in JFK, Jr. as an impossibly handsome ‘90s baddie and streetwear icon along with his wife Carolyn Bessette.

Newlyweds John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy kissing as they walk along Varick Street in Manhattan (1996).

Over the past several months—perhaps a hangover of my Dawson’s Creek-induced nostalgia for a time when I was alive but don’t remember (see my seminar on the topic here)—I became mildly obsessed with John-John (and Carolyn), ordering issues of George magazine on eBay and meticulously dressing as him, along with my bestie Witt as CBK, for Halloween.

This Sonja Morgan moment may have led me to John-John (Atlantic City, 2015)

Naturally Dylan (again, my stepsister’s boyfriend) thought hard on what to give me and landed on this priceless piece of the John-John Porcelain Doll Collection. And I can understand his choice, as it combined two of my major delights in this world: John-John and dolls. At the time I opened the gift, I’d gorged myself on stuffing after eating a lot of edibles (don’t get mad, I was in Colorado). This likely dulled my disturbance with this doll’s tragic nature: the highly photographed little John-John saluting his father’s casket on the day of his funeral in 1964, immortalized in porcelain and mod-acrylic fibers. What was it Ms. Sontag’s said about photography turning people into objects that can be symbolically possessed? But I really did and do love the doll, perhaps in part for that very reason?

At the time, my personal hero Heather Gay liked and commented on the post with “Your very own Red Ryder BB gun!! 😂 😂.” And as the likes trailed off and the dopamine depleted, the world moved on in its wild and terrible way. That was, until Patti chose to spend her Saturday night attacking me.

Though I didn’t have the wisdom frame it this way in the moment, I had two options: block her for the sake of distress tolerance or engage with Patti directly in what’s known as approach coping (I think?) in DBT. Of course, I opted for the latter…

She was bothered by my uncle’s off-camera comment, “Why is he in a stockade?”—a reference, of course, to the doll stand with which he was unfamiliar as an infrequent player of dolls. If we take seriously RO DBT’s commitment to juxtaposing “compassionate gravity with playful irreverence,” I was doing just that with myself inside my own head. And because I a) lead a boring life and b) have a high sense of moral rectitude with a hunger for justice, I continued to gently demand answers. But for days, there was no word from Patti, until I began posting about a local restaurant scandal involving a pair of money laundering brothers with close ties to Mayor Eric “money is the enemy of politics” Adams.

Was it possible Patti was involved with the Petrosyants brothers? And how could she accuse me of stalking her when she was the one who’d called my family “demented” and “obnoxious” on a post that was over two months old? And despite her claims, I did, in fact, know a good deal about Forno Rosso and its sisters due to 1) personally witnessing the “seized property” signs on their doors, which are just below my office 2) intel from my office manager and friend who used to work for them, and 3) previous reporting about the brothers’ relationship with Adams from Politico and the Daily Beast. So, dear Patti, how does sharing info about scammers evading taxes and misleading their employees mean I’m blinded by my “odd privileged fantasy life”? Patti returned to the original topic in question, which quickly got personal.

One difference is that my dad is not a historical/cultural figure or fashion icon. But if you’d like to dress like him in the ‘90s, you might copy early Joey Potter.

I asked Patti whether it’s wrong to dress up as someone like Marilyn Monroe (as I did throughout my childhood) or buy a Barbie in her likeness? Did her death by barbiturate overdose preclude us from beholding and consuming her as an object, something she already was one in life? And isn’t that all celebrities are to most of us—images stripped from a once-human source?

Patti continues her rage and uses “that” where she should use “who.”

I continued to provide Patti with other examples, which were met by much typing and deleting. It’s important I admit in retrospect (and this is me, in the DBT spirit, engaging with critical feedback in order to learn), that dolls and Halloween costumes of Selena, Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, Princess Diana et al. show them not in moments of sadness (à la Farewell Salute), but performance or positive press. For that reason, a porcelain version of “Under Daddy’s Desk” may have been more appropriate.

Patti changes tone and feigns concern for my psychological well-being.

I began to wonder how many of the strangers (largely boomers) following me shared Patti’s sentiments: that I was generally deranged and unhappy. This question is rhetorical, so please do not respond.

Patti takes on a maternal role, on which I call B.S.

Patti then suggested I “step back” since I don’t “have a vested interest” in the Petrosyantses’ restaurants. I tell her that their employees are the ones hurt by their actions, and that more than one had messaged me in approval and gratitude.

Patti seems to listen, but then manipulates.

Here’s where Patti and I left things. She suddenly became deferential to me, assumed I’d checked out her (private) Instagram page, and assured me she’d be there when I needed her.

Is Patti suddenly scared of me? Is there remorse?

Patti then made her Instagram public, and though I didn’t want to want to, I had to peruse. It turns out she might be an anti-vaxer, which led me to wonder whether her support for John-John stemmed from QAnon beliefs in his imminent resurrection. Due to her three-part name, I also found her on Facebook immediately.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the Patti I cannot change.

And so, I learned that Patti exists on a slightly different plane of reality than I do. But as we’ve learned from RO DBT, radical openness assumes that we don’t see things as they are but rather as we are. By that logic, Patti and I lived in, and acted by, our own truths. And though at first, stuck in my emotional mind, I hated her, I’ve since found my way into wise mind, where I can think of her dialectically. Patti hurt me and the world around her—a world I don’t know about—informs her perspective and actions. I radically accept her for who she is, and even thank her for inspiring this exercise.

For what it’s worth, for every Patti there may be a Marge (and at least four Carloses).

It’s always a pleasure to hear from my fans.

💖🌹CRUSH OF THE WEEK: MADISON HAMBURG🌹💖

In a break from my typical disrespectful horniness (though I’m finding that horniness to be more and more performative, as I’m doing just fine on my 163rd day of celibacy), I will only express my love and support for Madison Hamburg, director of HBO’s “Murder on Middle Beach” (2021). I’m awfully late to watching the docuseries, and for that I apologize, Madison.

Without revealing too much about the series (please watch!), I’ll just say that I want everything good to happen for Madison, and that I think he is very special.

💌LETTER TO THE EDITOR💌

A response to last week’s “Digital Dissonance + Ukraine,” by Juliana DeVaan.

Dear Carrie,

I’ve been thinking a lot about influencers and morality since your last newsletter. They always take on this stance of, like, moral superiority even as they post ads for Amazon or Better Health or Casetify. And if you have anything to say that isn’t “gorgeous angel face,” they get mad and say “Why would you take time out of your day to be mean to a stranger on the internet?! You’re the problem here.”

I feel like I should be able to critique them, from posting back to back Pray for Ukraine and Thirst Traps to in general just being bad at their jobs and having insufferable personalities. I even texted my friend who is a philosophy PhD for some logical assistance. She said: “I think it’s so stupid that they say anything that isn’t praise/agreement/validation is ‘mean.’ This is like a debate in philosophy rn—People r now arguing that criticism is like a good thing that gives us moral knowledge. And for so long it’s been this juried, negative penalty. When really it’s like, i need and want u to do better/be better and i care that u do.”

For example this one influencer I watched religiously on YouTube, Brooke Miccio, got a boyfriend and has stopped posting as much and making thorough vlogs (just feels like she is splicing together a lot of random footage of eating at weird restaurants on the Lower East Side that serve queso). She recently “responded to comments” about the fact that she seems “different” and that she is “not as fun to watch now” and went on this wild monologue about how she might have seemed like she was thriving then but really is thriving more now and that people should log off and let her be happy. And she does this circle of justifications to explain why she’s thriving more now than last year, and it’s all a bunch of empty words to justify her existence in moral terms. And her affect is totally manic now! Her videos used to induce smooth brain and now they make me anxious. But my sister rightfully pointed out that she’s just worse at her job now. And I guess I believe in supporting people being mediocre at their jobs? Idk. The circle continues.

Sending my best,

Juliana

Brooke Miccio in a YouTube screenshot chosen by DeVaan.

🦶🫀🦵CANNIBALISM🦵🫀🦶

After watching Fresh on Hulu the other night, I got to thinking about bodies and consumption. More precisely, I began to wonder if I was… not a cannibal, per se, but an auto-cannibal. When I watched Sebastian Stan shave off a piece of cured human leg like a fine jamón, I noticed I was chewing on the dead skin I’d just pulled off the sole of my left foot. If you know me personally, reader, you know that this is a compulsive habit of mine. You might also know that I keep a stash of tiny sterile scalpels in a box beneath my bathroom sink, and that I use them to pare down the mosaic planter wart cluster on my left foot (which I got at Equinox, by the way) and the necrotic flesh that surrounds it, which I sometimes ingest. I know I am oversharing, but I took Ritalin again and was recently told that revealing oneself as disgusting makes for a good read.

Many of us (I think) eat ourselves to some degree, whether that be nails or chapped lip blood or scabs. Speaking of which, I was pleased to find myfitnesspal dutifully providing the public with the answers it needs:

Scabs are guilt free! Just kidding, we don’t ascribe moral value to food anymore.

Not to worry, though: I’m not interested in eating other people, only small parts of myself. I was curious, though, about the nutritional content of human beings, and came across this delightful read from Quartz. Curiously, I was quickly recruited by AmTrak.

Is something happening in the dining car?

I then wondered whether (SPOILER ALERT) there was actually a black market for human meat in this world, and whether the same demons betting on Squid Games were also eating human pâté en croute. But then I got scared that Googling such things (which I’d guess live on the dark web anyway) would be incriminating.

I will say, though, that there’s something nefarious (albeit not literally cannibalistic) about the Bodies Exhibit/Body Worlds business. I have serious doubts that all those people “donated their bodies to science,” especially when that “science” faces Blue Man Group in the atrium of the Luxor Hotel & Casino.

🔎ARCHIVAL🔍

Pamela Anderson in the “Home Improvement” pilot (1991).

🌐🔗“CENTER JENNY” RETURNS🔗🌐

If you’ve done last week’s recommended viewing, you’ll enjoy some of my favorite “Center Jenny” quotes, along with this description of the film by Kevin McGarry.

Where can I find my own weaponized earmuffs?

“If you don’t have your phone in the circle, no one’s gonna be able to fetch you if you generate too much content.”

“I’m gonna go market some tropical sluts and you can alpha beta omega block them or whatever your glossy lips think you’re doing.”

“My parents—they owned and funded the war, at least the earth version.”

“Peace wherever the war is. Don’t bring it home.”

“We’re under martial law, bitches.”

“My parents bought me this consciousness expander to automate my homework.”

“Yeah, Jenny. It was really sad because they forgot to assign me a sitter and I waived all my rights on accident.”

“Fuck you, you’re not real!” - Monica
- “Bitch you’re not real. You’re in my system.” - Sarah Source

🫖CELEBRI-TEA🫖

When I was in first grade, I attended a gala at the Waldorf-Astoria (as one does) in support of the Jay Monahan Center for Gastrointestinal Health. It was a splendid evening during which the likes of Josh Groban and Bette Midler sang the songs of West Side Story. I, of course, was seated next to Queen Rania of Jordan, in whose presence I let out a silent and lethally sulfurous fart. From what I could tell, she barely winced, but my grandmother was ashamed. I am sorry to both Granny and Queen.

Granny meets Queen Rania Al-Abdullah in 2002.

I don’t think Mommy has ever hugged me like this?

Wait a minute… is that… Allison Gollust?

🔑NEW CHILDHOOD MEMORY UNLOCKED🔒

I recently remembered that one of the times I accompanied my mom to Pink Rose Nail (r.i.p.) on 89th and Madison, I wore a bathing suit underneath my clothes so that I could sit in the next pedicure basin while she had her toes done. I believe I played with a Barbie, but it’s also possible this was just a dream?