Chapter 32
32
April
I’m in my element.
I adapt to Chloe’s career like it’s always been mine. Making videos is second nature. Taking photos is a breeze. I could write captions without thinking and email brands with my eyes closed.
I didn’t know it would all come to me so fast, so easily. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of my life absorbing Chloe’s content through screens. I’ve intuitively picked up the nuances of daily vlogs, how to narrate my life in front of a camera, the gimmicks to boost engagement. And if I ever get lost, I can easily outsource. Stuck editing a video? Hire an editor. Running out of ideas? Hire a creative team. Too tired to clean my apartment? Hire a maid. The costs associated with their employment are nothing compared to the money they help me generate.
This is not to say I have it easy. Influencing is like running a 24/7 QVC where I’m the sole spokesperson. I’ve had to commodify every aspect of my life for profit, tailor my routine for sponsorships and sales. If I’m not posting or filming, I capitalize on seemingly mundane activities by going live. At exactly seven-thirty a.m., I stream myself getting ready for the morning. At nine-thirty p.m., I broadcast myself winding down. Fans will flood my lives and we’ll start and end the day together as if we’re roommates. Sometimes, I’ll even have lunch with them. I’ve become a safe third place, their ever-present online bestie. A group of lonely followers have even coined themselves the Chloe Crew and have become my most valiant supporters. I know some of them by name because of how often they show up or send me donations.
During my rare offline moments, I’m constantly working to improve myself so I can maintain Chloe’s happy, healthy brand. I’ve become an exercise fiend. Every day, I post an Instagram story of my body in a dimly lit exercise room that accentuates my #bodygoals. (I’ve grown my male audience this way too.) I’ve gotten my first injection of Botox, which makes me a certified influencer. Barely ten units, just enough to slow down the wrinkling between my brows and forehead, and not enough to make my face look frozen. The type of treatment celebrities get to convince fans they’re still natural. The doctor at the clinic almost persuaded me to get lip filler but I declined. Changing too much of my face will tarnish my authenticity.
On the business end, I’ve rectified Chloe’s habit of rejecting sponsorships left and right. Sure, I don’t take every sponsor that lands in my lap—that would make me a sellout—I’m just slightly less discerning. In my defense, I have extortion to pay. My aunt’s threats are as regular and irritable as my period, and with her egregious interest rate, I’m barely making headway. Every time I receive a sponsor payout that should make my eyes glitter, I have to confront the fact she’ll snatch part of it. It’s like paying dues to the devil. Worse yet, I have this nagging feeling that even if I do manage to pay her off, she’ll continue demanding more, that as long as I live as Chloe, she’ll never let me go.
It’s the price of my crime.
To make sure I get her payments on time, I’ve taken a lucrative, ongoing (low-key) sponsorship with this sleep gummy company, SLEEPY BEARS. They’re scarily effective. Sometimes, my alarm has trouble waking me up if I chew two before bedtime. Not a single nightmare, either, which is a blessing. As much as positive affirmations helped curb my initial dreams of Chloe, meeting the dying Van Huusens shocked horrors back into my slumber. If it wasn’t for SLEEPY BEARS I’d be a straight-up insomniac. I’m not kidding—these tiny lavender-flavored gummies hit like hardcore drugs… probably because they are. They’re not FDA-approved or government-regulated, which is why I can’t outright say I’m sponsoring them. I have to inconspicuously slip the product in mid-vlog or during a wind-down livestream. But hey, money is money.
I also put a moratorium on impulse purchases once I realized PR can fill the hole of online shopping. Every day, I’ve been receiving at least three boxes of free shit from random brands. Sometimes, the sheer quantity becomes so daunting, I let them pile up in my living room. Once the sight of free stuff becomes too burdensome, I’ll film a PR unboxing to capitalize on the effort it takes to organize them. Fiona and I stack the boxes behind me so it looks like I’m in a cardboard fort, me a cute little princess in a brown castle. I pull out packages from behind me like Tetris, an added point of tension for the viewer: Will my tower of excessive consumption crush me today? Then I unbox pounds and pounds of sunscreens, face washes, entire foundation lines, body lotions, serums, essences. Hair oils, body oils, tanning oils. Shirts, dresses, jeans, sunglasses, hats. Some companies even send giant boxes the size and weight of my torso only for it to be an elaborate display for one teeny tiny product: a gacha machine fit with working electronics to advertise a brown eyeliner; a box filled with balloons that rise into the air for one bar of soap; a thirty-pound package containing a beach chair, sun hat, and flip-flops for a new coconut-scented body lotion.
The last PR unboxing I filmed went on for eight hours. I’m not kidding. EIGHT hours of cutting open packages, throwing away foam packing peanuts, paper worms, bubble wrap, and excavating the little plastic jars inside. It’s hard work. People don’t see the effort that goes behind a snappy thirty-minute unboxing vid. By the end of it, my apartment was cluttered with so much trash, it reminded me of those rivers in developing countries that are clogged with plastic bags and green Sprite bottles. Sad. Oh well.
Because I’m so gracious, I donate or host giveaways to get rid of most of the junk. Sometimes, when I get too tired of receiving free things, I’ll let Ramos keep the box for his daughter.
On the rare occasion I want something that I’m not on a PR list for, I’ll simply send an email with a promise of exposure and the products will be on my doorstep in days. (And unlike many influencers, I’ll actually post about the product after receiving it!) I haven’t paid for anything for the past month.
I finally understand what people mean when they say the rich keep getting richer.
And I love it.
Let’s take a second to be honest here. Cultivate a safe space. Let down our walls and expose the truest, darkest, cruelest parts of our souls. I’m about to bestow a truth that may be hard to swallow: anyone would want to be me. Who wants to pay for shit when you can get it for free? I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I hate the money and attention. Creators who are “down-to-earth ” and reject capitalism are nothing more than hypocrites shilling out so-called socialist viewpoints from their mega-mansions or sky-high penthouses. They don’t give a fuck. If they did, they’d donate all their money and live in a shitty studio apartment instead of being professional grifters with golden egos. And those who hate this lifestyle are nothing more than envious wannabes. If they had access to my life for one day, they’d cease their righteous comments, standing on their little soapboxes like they’re better than me just because they’re poor, hateful little internet gremlins. Shit like how I’m being wasteful, ungrateful, privileged, and tone-deaf. Boo-hoo. Who the fuck cares? How about you actually work and get to my level instead of complaining all the time?
And it’s not like I’m the worst. Out of the major influencers, I’m at the bottom of the food chain. Imagine what the people in the double or triple millions are doing. At least I’m not running crypto-scams or filming dead bodies in suicide forests or dancing for TikTok in front of Auschwitz. I haven’t killed anyone or started any fires or groomed any of my fans. If anything, I save people with my content. My followers literally tell me that every single day: Your livestreams keep me going. They saved me during my darkest times because there’s always something to look forward to in the morning.
Hear that? I save lives.
So, in the grand scheme of things, I’m a good person.
A great fucking person.
Everyone in my Chloe Crew tells me so.