Juné

there is something intoxicating about a person who is deeply occupied with something they are passionate about. the most attractive people are usually the hardest to reach. not because they are playing games. not because they think they’re better than everyone else. but because their mind is already occupied by something bigger than attention. they are building something. mastering something. obsessed with something. and that obsession gives them a kind of energy you cannot fake. people can feel when someone’s entire life revolves around being noticed. it makes them predictable, too available, too easy to read. but the people who stay in your mind for years are different. they have depth. mystery. a private world you cannot fully access. they disappear into their craft instead of disappearing into validation. they don’t wait around for texts all day because they are too busy becoming someone they are proud of. and the craziest part? the less they need attention, the more magnetic they become. because “nothing is more alluring than someone who has somewhere else to be, even if that place is internal.”

Last night I got mogged at an NYC party full of models and bottles. (The beer was sponsored, brought by one of the many models with 100K+ followers on social. It had the worst cherry aftertaste, but I strangely found myself craving it after a few minutes). The mogging was my own fault, of course. Not the first time I’ve brought a San Francisco vibe to a fabulous New York City party. But in this case, I crashed the beautiful birthday boy’s party. Or rather, he saw me walk by him to the bathroom and asked if I wanted free food later. Duh! I want all the free food, especially if it’s a delicious chicken-paratha-taco. So a few hours later, I helped him cook for 50+ people and was rewarded with rejuvenating meals and conversation. Can you imagine how refreshing it is to talk to angelic people who have no idea what Claude Code is? My eyes drank all night. All the furs and sleek jackets and luscious lipstick were a lovely feast. For me, the best dressed was the tall Black saxophonist in all black suit with a sleeve of gold sequins, his locks literally locked between gold locks, his brows and beard dyed a flinty white-gold. A beautiful man with a beautiful aura, dripping like saturated sun. Strange that such a party was held at Fractal Tech; models Blue Steeling in front of the cool patchy door; models strutting down the length of our workspace; models practicing their posing among the wires. Fractal was christened last night. It has peaked! It can only roll downhill from here. There will never be such taut waistlines and hard jawlines at my house of geeks ever again. I even met my doppelgänger, if I dare to raise my water to her 5’10” wasian Olivia Munn-looking self. Perhaps it was just a superficial resemblance, with our bright red turtlenecks and dark black jeans. She asked me where the bathroom was and I saw no mutual recognition in her eyes, though if I had a bursting bladder, I too wouldn’t have stopped to consider whether I’ve met my funhouse mirror image. It wasn’t all bad for me, though. A fabulous Ghanaian man gestured to me, saying I wear my red so well. A young Columbia University student with a summer private equity internship (as if the looks-mogging wasn’t enough), said that I surely must still be in my 20s when I mentioned some millennial thing. He may have just been flattering me, but he was Asian too. Not as easy to skate by on the youthful Asian genes with other Asians. In any case, I will savor these compliments until my death bed. This is what men must feel like when they receive a compliment every three years! As for the end of the night: if you’ve never polished off Korean pear sliced by an absolute doll with lethal ninja knife skills, you’re missing out.