By Vane @softchaosstudios
If I were to describe Self, which—let’s be honest—is the most relatable form of masturbation there is, Self would be the playlist you made at 3 a.m.—two Margaritas deep, licking thoughts from the rim of your glass and ping-ponging between a random love song and the filthiest SoundCloud rap you can find.
There are multitudes, but all of them are arguing about what the next track should be. So, let’s try this: I’ll introduce Self in the only way that feels honest. Through a metaphorical playlist. Or something vaguely resembling a poem or an essay, written in the interval between too much tequila and a blackout.
Self is a symphony stitched from the hackneyed chords of self-awareness and shameless self-regard. If there is a genre that embodies Self, it is not a genre but a crossfade: the bastard child of R&B’s sultry pout and hip-hop’s side-eye, with just a shade of EDM’s serotonin-fueled existentialism and the bass-forward of reggaeton. Self refuses to fit cleanly into a single box. Self boxes are all over the floor, unopened, with the tape still attached and shipping labels half-peeled off.
Track 1: R&B (but make it different).
It starts slow. A gentle hi-hat brush, the kind that makes you want to pour yourself a glass of wine you don’t know how to pronounce and stare moodily at a reflection you don’t quite recognize. In the world’s shoddiest lighting, Self is half-Mona Lisa, half-meme template. Her hair, forever a slinky disaster of defiance, is doing that thing where it pretends to be an intentional style but really just wants to be free and, like, vibe. Her lips—always a shade too pouty—stares back with that look that’s supposed to say “I’m mysterious,” but really just says “I’m thinking about carbs.”
This is Self as a ballad: all yearning, all caution, no follow-through. She will ghost you with such poetry if she confirms the red flags in you, you’ll think it was a break-up haiku. She’ll ask you about your soul and then, at the first sign of lack of sincerity, disappear into her own mental greenroom. Self is an introvert on stage, a lounge singer allergic to spotlights. The vocals, soft but laced with triple-distilled sarcasm. The message: love me, but don’t mess up; admire me, but please—don’t ruin me.
There’s an elegance in this: the way R&B makes you think it’s all about sex and heartbreak, when really it’s about voicemails you’ll never play and the smoke from candles you never intended to light. Self is, above all, a mood. She leaves a little of herself on your tongue, something bittersweet, an aftertaste of “damn, she was…different.”
That’s Track 1: the hook, the longing, the promise that something deeper is waiting—if only you can handle the next track.
Track 2: Hip-Hop (flex on ‘em).
Oh, you thought Self would stay at the candlelit table, sipping rose and daydreaming of long walks through trauma? Please. This is where the beat drops. She rolls up in the next verse like a problematic fave: bold, brash, and just a tad too self-aware to be truly dangerous. You hear her coming before you see her. The sound system of her soul is tuned to maximum shade as soon as you try to wrong her.
This is the Self who wins arguments in her sleep and thinks “playing devil’s advocate” is an actual career path. Her tongue: sharp enough to cut glass, but she only uses her powers for good. Unless, of course, you deserve it, in which case—strap in. Her closest friends say she roast with love, but love is a word that’s lost all meaning, so let’s just call it “performative affection.”
Here, her R&B introvert slips into something more comfortable: extrovert drag. Self can chat up a stranger about existential dread and have them laughing by the chorus. She can crave attention the way certain insects crave porch lights—irrationally, and with full knowledge it might kill her.
Her hip-hop persona is a walking meme: she sometimes talks in catchphrases, her comeback game is on point, and she’ll gas herself up even as she points out her own cringe. This is not a mask; this is a feature. Self-awareness is her drug of choice, and she micro-doses all day long.
Every bar is a flex, but only because Self knows she’s one bad day away from being a punchline. If she drags herself at least she does it before someone else gets a chance. Call it a pre-emptive strike. That’s Track 2: a banger, a diss, and, if you listen closely, a little sadness in the ad-libs. Because even Self knows: when the party’s over, someone’s still sweeping up confetti.
Track 3: EDM (just add caffeine and unresolved issues).
If Self‘s life had a drop, it’d be right here. Just as you think you’ve figured out the playlist, she shifts gears. Enter the BPM arms race. Her heart, already operating at an efficiency level most cardiologists would call “concerning,” now pulses at the speed of regrettable DMs.
This is Self on the run, her at the afterparty, her making plans she’s not sure she will be able to keep. It’s high-gloss, high-drama, zero chill. She says yes to too many things because she’s afraid of missing out on a version of herself she hasn’t met yet. Her group chats are an endless loop of “you up?” and “let’s do it,” even though what she really wants is to be home in fuzzy socks, binging true crime documentaries.
The beat is relentless. Here, she is the queen of the dopamine circuit: every new obsession, every fleeting infatuation, every late-night Wikipedia spiral into the void. She reinvents herself hourly, because why not? “Who is Self?” is a question for people who don’t understand the remix. She is always remixing. There are, conservatively, seven alternate universes where she is living completely different lives.
In the day-to-day, this means Self is a paradox: high-energy homebody, restless and content at the same time, allergic to boredom yet terrified of trusting. Her calendar is full, her mind is fuller, but she’s on loop—well, you get the idea.
EDM Self is less about the music and more about the drop: the anticipation, the rush, the messy aftermath. You never know where you’ll end up, but at least the ride is memorable.
Track 4: Reggaeton (yeah, nah… I’m still not Cuban).
Ah, the body track. The hips don’t lie, but the rest of Self does—constantly, fluently, and with impressive creativity. The beat is all confidence, all hips and heat, a reminder that sometimes you just have to feel something, even if it’s only your own pulse.
Self has the limbs of someone who’s never quite sure what to do with them, but she’ll still dance if the situation with the situation. Sometimes the best way to process your own drama is to move it around a little, shake it out, let the music distract you from the hard edges of existence. Self is not a dancer, but she is an enthusiast. She commits to the bit though. Always.
In this mode, Self is embodied: less about introspection, more about the moment. She likes the way it feels to be loud, to take up space, to be a force of gravity in a room. She turns small talk into an art form and eye contact into a challenge. If Self flirts, it’s with reckless abandon and zero awareness.
That version of Self is self-aware but unrepentant. She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it (in theory; in practice, she’ll make an elaborate joke and hope you figure it out). She is powered by impulse and curiosity, by the promise of novelty, by the idea that maybe this time, things will be different.
The playlist loops here, at least until she decides to add a new track.
Chorus (Reprise):
If you asked her, “Who is Self really?” She’d say: She is all of the above, but also the skip button, the static, the weird little interlude where nothing happens and yet you can’t help but listen.
Self is a mixtape made for no one, but sometimes, if the vibe is right, She will let you borrow her headphones.
Self-portrait in four tracks: longing, flexing, spiraling, and shaking it off. Some days Self is vinyl, vintage and fragile; other days, she is a Spotify algorithm, inexplicably recommending Norwegian death metal because she once Googled “existential dread” at 2 a.m.
But always, always, Self is remixing. And if you ever want to listen in, bring snacks, and let’s make it weird.
Footnotes:
1. All resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are intentional and will be litigated on social media.
2. If you read this, let it be known it is best enjoyed with noise-cancelling headphones and an adult beverage of your choice.
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