I’m feeling performative, so I snap a not-so-subtle flick of my matcha.

My Philz strawberry mint matcha. It’s tricolored — the matcha, oat milk and strawberry purée watching from within the cup as I attempt yet another photo. They’re waiting for me to marry the flavors and stir at last. Another photo. Droplets begin to perspire on the plastic. Another photo. Condensation, they call it — another photo — but actually, it’s probably crying.

I’m thirsty, but I’m thirstier for attention, for anything social-media savvy. Drinking matcha undigitized doesn’t say enough about me.

I want the world’s biggest, most beautiful Beli. Not belly, Beli. Beli isn’t physical, and at best, it’s social. It’s a recommendation and restaurant ranking app — the more restaurants you rank, the higher your own rank.

And it might be a cult. 

The onboarding process is lengthy: fill out your food preferences, log in with your location and, the cherry on top, invite four friends. Its pre-written, word-of-mouth message: 

Hey! Sharing an invite to Beli—an invite-only social restaurant tracking app. This app is perfect for you, and selfishly I need you on the app so I can see your restaurant lists! Excited to have you on, and make sure to use my link!

Typical cult humiliation ritual. Almost socially unacceptable. The cult’s main offense, though, is its oversimplification. I’d call it a religion of reduction. 

For example, Beli asks me what I liked better: the matcha sitting in front of me now in Philz, or the cardamom latte I can’t recall from a spring-time excursion downtown? Next question: who wins between a tea house with a tasting menu and a single, measly-in-comparison matcha?

I’m not happy with how Beli sets up these head-to-heads. I can’t compare comfort food to fine dining, and I can’t boil down all a meal’s context by choosing between only three, algorithmically backended buttons. Colored red, yellow and green, respectively: “I didn’t like it,” “It was fine,” and “I liked it!”  

But Beli is still nice; I could say it tastes almost bittersweet. I can appreciate how it’s personalized. There’s convenience in its recommendations — its made-to-order lists of local fare and specific cuisines. It saves me from the overwhelming hassle of catching up with the online stampede of opinions; everybody is a critic, equally. Silly internet democracy. 

Beli is my quintessential app for consumption, and I am the perfect consumer. But I want more. I want a heist. 

We live like kings. We can kick back, and we can capture, rank and quantify our experiences. Look at Letterboxd, GoodReads, Spotify and, of course, its end-of-year Wrapped. These platforms give us a choice — what we are, and what we consume. They’re banks, hoarding valuable cultural currency. And they’re in business because, even as kings, we’re scared to forget our consumption. 

Beli is the direct consequence of a greedy civilization with a grain surplus. And that surplus serves as a slippery slope into our self-obsessed culture. 

Instead of using social media to be social — to learn about each other and our world — more often than not, it’s used to say something about ourselves. And everything can say something. 

Fittingly, the banks demand nothing less. 

I log and I digitize. I list, then measure, then flatten my experiences into a number. But I’m exhausted, and I want the feel of real money. I want proof of life, and I want to find it without those all-too-careful, Beli-like calculations. 

Digitization depletes the value of living in the moment. These contemporary, tech-optimized and, dare I say, rankmaxxing mediums leave nearly no room for nuance. I don’t want to define what I love through rigid, tech-optimized validation. I want to wander and wonder. I want my tastes to fluctuate, and I want it to feel easy. I want space for growth and maturity. 

Maybe, if I’m feeling a certain way, one day I might reconsider the tea house with the tasting menu. I might look back fondly on the matcha I once considered measly. 

So I want to rob those banks and take back the real-world experience. This cultural currency deserves some liquidity. 

It’s one thing to consume something, and then reflect on that consumption. Experience it. Savor it. Hate it, like it, love it, or somewhere between all three. Wonder is always welcome, and nuance has space to breathe here. 

I can capture that consumption in its moment — snap a photo, write a review — or I can let it run its course. I can circle back — circle as long as I’d like — and maybe I’ll wander along the way. 

My favorite thing, though, is when I consume nothing. 

As kings, all the world submits before our fingertips. Just beyond our screens lives infinite information and a sense of absolute autonomy. As for the question of what we are and what we consume, the answer is simple: We can be and consume anything. 

But watching more movies, reading more books, playing more music for the sake of more, for anything other than exercising or enjoying or simply existing, is not real. Certain stats, loud online presences, a big Beli — it’s all only vanity. 

So, in the face of everything, I want to feel secure enough to consume nothing. I won’t log anything. I’m emptying my mind, and when I’m ready, I’ll fuel up again — with my actual belly. 

How many hours I’ve lost in the app consuming — scrolling through recommendations, sorting  through lists — as opposed to living in the real world, I don’t know, and I don’t want to. Spare me the arbitrary ratings. The algorithmic banality. The mechanical ranking and quantifying in place of actually eating, of experiencing, of learning and, thus, authentically consuming. 

I take a sip. The matcha is good. I decide not to post the picture. And then I delete it. 

I stir. Another sip. My Beli is empty, and I am full. 

I’m full of life because I’m saving room for nothing.