Hollywood on the Balcony: the Like as Food and the Feed as an Altar

Larisa - LoQueArde
Oct 22, 2025
3 min read

Pop-style digital illustration with saturated colors showing a person with a pink wig, sunglasses, and a yellow shirt looking at their phone. From their eyes, a bright purple liquid drips onto the screen, symbolizing addiction. Behind them, on a turquoise background, the word “ADDICT” appears in large pink letters, with the word “SOCIAL” written in green inside the letter “D.”

If they turned off the little flames today, half the world would go into emotional fasting.

I always thought the famous ones —the ones who showed everything— were from Hollywood, the ones I used to watch on TV when I was a kid.

But no. Turns out now everyone’s got their own reality show in 1080p.

Nowadays anyone has their own portable red carpet and an overhead shot of their “productive morning.”

And it’s kind of fine, isn’t it?

The American dream, democratized: everyone’s the protagonist, no one’s watching.

And I’m okay with that — stardom within reach of anyone who’s got enough battery and a clean front camera.

There’s something tender in all that enthusiasm, in that excessive faith that everyday life, properly framed, can turn into a plot.

I applaud them: making routine look like a trailer is already experimental cinema.

Documenting life or documenting themselves alive… in the end, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?

Scene 1

Person A opens the feed, gulps down 47 stories, and practices their “I don’t care” face in front of the phone.

Scene 2

Person B books a table at a restaurant with sad candles, heavy “for-the-photo” cutlery, and a museum-grade bottle of wine.

They upload the starter with the logo in focus, tag the place, geolocate it as “private terrace,” slip in two French adjectives, and secretly wait for a discount coupon “for giving them visibility.”

They close the app, eat with anxiety, and suddenly throw up all over the tablecloth while their partner doesn’t know how to hide such a scene. It wasn’t the alcohol — it was eating while watching other people’s lives; the stomach can’t digest real-time comparison.

Scene 3

You post something you actually worked on. No altar, no crusade.

A “👏” from an acquaintance drops in. A lukewarm comment from an ex who never looks at anything shows up. And that’s when the theater begins.

Interruption (a thought that sneaks in):

How long — in kitchen clocks — does a lifetime take to choose the filter that promises to improve its karma?

My god, with that feed in my business I’d already be a millionaire.

What would happen if they cut off the supply of hearts and little flames for 24 hours?

I line them up in my head:

a “pretty one” refreshing the app like someone sniffing freshly baked bread,
a “fat one” laughing and refreshing again,
a guy posing jaw–shoulder–bicep in perfect sync,
another doing a duck face while sipping water and staring at the camera,
and in the back, someone taking a shit while scrolling, dignity set to airplane mode.

All of them waiting for the same thing: that ding that certifies, “you still exist.”

Pop-style digital illustration with saturated colors showing the torso and legs of a person wearing a green shirt decorated with two large eyes shedding blue tears. The person wears vertically striped pants in dark blue and green tones and holds a lit cigarette between their fingers. A bright yellow background enhances the visual contrast and the ironic tone of the image.

Quick manual to become an engagement zombie (no morals attached):

Noti-breakfast. Open your eyes with the app. If there are no little flames, invent some.
Lunch à la backlight. Eat while staring at your phone; the acid reflux comes with extra sauce. Bonus: share the acid.
Comparison cardio. Measure your worth by other people’s bodies.
If the girl next to you got thinner, assume the fetal position and whisper, “Algorithm, forgive me.”
Validation sips. A sip of validation every ten minutes.
If it’s not enough, double the dose.
Night hygiene. Curate your “Close Friends” list like a greenhouse: what you hide from the rest, bloom it there in premium version.
For adrenaline, move someone in or out at 2:37 a.m. and monitor the pulse.
Emoji diet. Live on hearts and little flames. If they leave you on read, stick your fingers down your throat, throw it all up, and get back to the routine.
Guilt dessert. Say “I’m doing it for me” while staring at the counter.

Closure (without closing)

I don’t know if this causes laughter, nausea, or hunger. Maybe all three.

I keep watching, recording, and moving on.

If the lights go out tomorrow, we’ll see who SURVIVES ON LITTLE HEARTS AND WHO DIES OF HEARTISTIC STARVATION. (OR FLAMISTIC, MAYBE.)

Meanwhile, the balcony stays open and the line keeps moving.

Hollywood on the Balcony: the Like as Food and the Feed as an Altar

If they turned off the little flames today, half the world would go into emotional fasting.

I always thought the famous ones —the ones who showed everything— were from Hollywood, the ones I used to watch on TV when I was a kid.

But no. Turns out now everyone’s got their own reality show in 1080p.

Nowadays anyone has their own portable red carpet and an overhead shot of their “productive morning.”

And it’s kind of fine, isn’t it?

The American dream, democratized: everyone’s the protagonist, no one’s watching.

And I’m okay with that — stardom within reach of anyone who’s got enough battery and a clean front camera.

There’s something tender in all that enthusiasm, in that excessive faith that everyday life, properly framed, can turn into a plot.

I applaud them: making routine look like a trailer is already experimental cinema.

Documenting life or documenting themselves alive… in the end, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?

Subscribe if you feel like it.

And if you want to keep reading—

This isn’t a temple or a class:

it’s a balcony on fire with a great view.

Here there’s heart and real fire 💛🖤😊

The rest… is emotional water heater 🤪

https://www.loquearde.net/

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