A Good Life

She woke late to a throbbing headache and the rhythmic flash of her phone’s blue light. Five likes and one dislike. One dislike! Her morning was ruined. She wondered if it was the new hair, but then dismissed it. It was the latest fashion; everyone was doing it. That couldn’t be it.

She looked in the mirror. Her chubby face stared back, but she wasn’t worried; a chubby face was an easy fix. Her stream filter would streamline her jaw and deepen her skin tone, an “earth-toned” aesthetic was in vogue this week. Her natural skin was too pale for the Top 5. She knew the metrics; hence, the filter.

The team had sourced a boyfriend for the week, selecting him from a pool of hundreds. They were streaming together later. In post-production, she would deepen her voice slightly to sound more “trustworthy.” The sound guy would handle the frequencies.

Her morning routine was a work of art. It had been voted “BEST MORNING ROUTINE” in the 12-15 category two years running. The camera was hidden behind the bathroom mirror, capturing her as she brushed her teeth. Sometimes she would sing in the shower, not too well, not too poorly. You don’t want to show off. People hate that.

She cultivated her mediocrity with intense discipline. It was her secret weapon. She wasn’t too funny, just enough to prompt an easy smile. She avoided anything difficult or deep. You don’t want to make anyone think.

Her day was planned to the minute. You can’t make things up as you go; that’s the fastest way to drop in the CHART. You have to live deliberately.

The morning was for “activities,” playing with the dog, for instance. Her ratings always spiked when she did that. But these things are temporary; the audience will eventually tire of the dog. She’ll have to phase him out. Maybe a “tragic accident” or a disappearance. Tragedies are excellent for the algorithm. For now, though, she cuddled him like there was no tomorrow. She called him Fluffy, the top choice of the focus group. Every detail counts.

At lunch, she would perform the weight-loss arc. The standard script: the struggle, the relapse, the “journey.” Maybe some purging? Definitely some tears. She had the eye drops ready in her kit.

The afternoon was equally full. That was when the “relationship” story would unfold. Maybe a breakup today, maybe not. It all depended on the live audience reaction. There were plenty of other accessories, other boyfriends, waiting in the wings.

The evenings were for the chat. That was the trickiest part: staying lightly informal. She had to make it look personal without ever saying anything actually personal. Above all, she stayed away from the substantive. If you say something controversial, someone is bound to disagree. Disagreement is dangerous. It is not rocket science, folks.

Before bed, she checked the Chart one last time. She had climbed a dozen positions in the past year alone. Not first class yet, but respectable.

As she closed her eyes, she felt a deep sense of serenity. This was the life she had worked so hard for. She might as well enjoy it.