The sound of “Glue Song” blasts through my room when I wake up each day.

My mouth is dry every morning, yearning for the grassy taste of matcha: a matcha latte, nearing six to seven dollars. That is NOT counting the gas money for my drive to Community Goods in LA. My matcha latte is solely an accessory to my outfit. I mean, who even likes the taste of it? I’ve noticed the drink goes well with my empty tote bag and my wired earbuds. Not gonna lie, my earbuds are for decoration too. They hang off the sides of my ears, blasting the melodies of Clairo or beabadoobee, so the huzz can hear.

My life changed the day I learned about the LA Fashion Starter Pack. My outfit choices revolve around the same formula. The base of my outfit stays the same every day, with my baggy Japanese raw selvedge denim that I’ve worn for six to seven weeks on end without washing. Hey, can’t risk losing their perfect slouch and structure ratio. My lower drawer is bursting with slub-cotton baby t-shirts that are cropped and fit my boxy proportions. For only 80 dollars each, these tees were the best investment I’ve ever made. They are CRUCIAL to my outfit. I’ve been gravitating towards boots for footwear lately, ever since Adidas Sambas became more mainstream. I cannot be caught wearing the same shoes as everyone else.

Now, don’t let my accessories fool you. Yes, I can see. 20/20 vision, baby. My clear blue light glasses are strictly to fit in with the curious fellows and fellas roaming the aisles of Barnes & Noble. With each step, my keys clash and jangle together on the side of my waistband. The keys don’t actually open anything, not even my own house, but they signal that I’m important. I’m him.

I must catch my reflection in every reflective surface. I tilt my head slightly, imagining a photographer documenting my morning routine for Vogue. “Jawline on fleek” is what the ladies would say.

“Have you been mewing?” my homies often ask.

Yes, I have, actually. Thirty minutes daily!

The best seat in the house is basically reserved for me at my favorite cafe. I take a seat and whip out my dandy feminist literature from my tote bag. Crossing one leg, I sip my matcha, turning up the volume in my earbuds. Then, I read. Kinda… My mind is set on one thing only: looking cool and nonchalant for whoever passes by.

Sometimes I underline random sentences in the book with a pen just so people think I’m thinking inquisitively, as one might say. I don’t actually understand any of the sentences, but I raise my brow and nod as I sip my matcha.

Then he walks in. Another one of me. His tote is bigger. His matcha has oat milk. He pulls out his copy of feminist literature and places it on the table like it’s a family heirloom. I adjust in my chair, crossing my legs tighter. I raise my volume, letting Clairo leak out of my earbuds. He counters immediately, his earbuds blasting Laufey. A bold move.

I sip my matcha slowly, making eye contact with no one but pretending like the entire cafe is watching me. He stirs his drink with his straw, staring at me. We are locked in battle. I underline a random line in my book and nod. He takes out his highlighter, a fluorescent pink one, and underlines three pages in one go, sighing as though the burden of society sits heavy on his 18-ounce raw denim.

Keys jingle.

Not mine, his. A fuller, heavier set, with a Labubu hanging on as well. His keys are probably fake, too, but convincing. He dangles them casually on the table, metal clashing against wood. I retaliate by dropping my filled-out j*b application on the table. A baddie looks over. Victory? Not yet. He pulls a journal from his tote. Moleskine. Leather-bound. Untouched. He flips it open and writes a single word: “existence.” Then shuts it. I feel my entire act crumble. The performative-off ends in a draw. We do not speak, but in that silence, we both realize the truth; only one of us will get posted on someone’s Instagram story captioned “men who get it.”