March 23rd, 2026 - My Balenciaga
Dear TNY,
“My Balenciaga” is unfuckingreadable.
I had dread when I read the title. I had more dread when I saw that it was over 7,400 words. And I had even more dread when the first sentence introduced four characters, all unremarkable. Then, after chewing my way through shit that absolutely did not matter, I couldn’t even make it half way before I quit. This is an absolute turd of a story and very on par with TNY in the last decade.
How is it that I can’t finish this story yet you have a team of people that read this shit and they all got through it and thought it was good? My guess is that not everyone finished it. Also, my guess is that it’s The Emperor’s New Clothes over there. Hell, if I’m self-important enough to have an opinion then any one of you can as well. They are just opinions after all. They don’t require authority.
I don’t have much more to say. I got sick last Monday. I thought it was COVID but I took a test and it wasn’t. I thought it was based on how little oxygen I was getting. To be phlegmed up at the bronchi level is always fierce. But I spent a week coughing it up and getting over my fever and having my bones hurt and then not hurt. So that’s all good.
I talked to people on the phone. I watched a lot of content. I read some materials on mental health. Learned some things.
I’m starting to get bored of being depressed. I have run out of shit to do while sitting around. Feeling like I might have to pull up on this stick soon. There might be something worth doing out there in the world. Funnily enough, my mental health has slightly improved. Which has had a grand effect on things like my heart and my stomach. The doctors were right. This shit is in my head.
Well, this week’s letter will be a short one. I don’t even know what to put up as a picture. Oh, here. I got one. I got to take my Zio patch off this week and take a real fucking shower. So congrats. Here’s a picture of my nipple. Enjoy. Flick your bean until you fucking gush.
Nick
