This piece was an in-print exclusive in December 2023.
I miss him already. I missed him on Friday, I missed him all weekend, and today, too, I miss him. Who knows how long this wistful state will last. Perhaps a month, a week, a matter of hours; like so many others, he’ll be gone tomorrow, dancing into the dusk in a tight quarter-zip. And there he will stay, a stolen baby in one hand and a volleyball in the other, until evening fails to fall.
Or until HBO begins production on his biopic, during which the media circus will return and he will rise from the ashes in a top hat and cape. A fitting outfit, I think; according to Deadline, this film will be a “Gatsby-esque journey of a man from nowhere who exploited the system, waged war on truth and swindled one of the wealthiest districts in the country to achieve his American Dream.” Oh, how he will flourish.
But I will admit I have thrived this weekend, skating through life with a glee that comes not from the expulsion of Rep. George Santos from Congress, but from his name being once more in the mouth of the media. Swifties claim tears and devastation when their idol is proven false, but in those moments, they are at an apical exhilaration; out of the woodworks do fandoms scuttle most fervently not in times of success but of scandal, for it is then when the most eyes are locked upon their affection. This is the nature of a parasocial relationship: non-mutual and entirely delusional, it flourishes not on conversation or connection but on content. In that, I am lucky, for Rep. George Santos is an over-full and ever-spilling cauldron of content.
I am very aware, of course, that his exploitation of actual tragedy—falsely claiming he is family to those killed in both the Holocaust and 9/11—carries an undeniable weight and is deeply disrespectful to those for whom his claims are true. Politically, too, he has acted immorally, stealing money from voters and spending it recklessly. And while lies and frauds are a constant in politics, those of Rep. George Santos are particularly notable, for they are delivered with such revolutionary charm and mischief that I cannot help but see these actions as not only harmless, but perversely delightful. Perhaps this is a scathing self-indictment: one could claim my defeatism regarding politics and nonchalance at his lies is a projection of my contextual privilege, and they would doubtless be correct. I nonetheless cannot detach myself from my enjoyment. His face smirking in a notification always causes my face to brighten. Who knows what new and delicious thing he has done today? Did he claim he was never a Disney-singing drag queen in Brazil, despite the photographs? Did he lie on his fake website that he acted in Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody? Did he run through the halls of Congress with a baby in his arms, and when asked if it was his baby, respond with “Not yet”? It doesn’t fucking matter! All are fascinating! And all are content!
Content spreads like a delightful carcinogen. The thrill I feel at hearing his name in the media arises not only from his own actions, but from the assessments of them as well. Did you know Rep. George Santos is not actually a pathological liar? Christian L. Hart, co-author of Pathological Lying: Theory, Research, and Practice, walked a journalist from Insider through his distanced-diagnosis of him, saying at one point that, “Part of being a pathological liar is that the person has distress, and dysfunction, and wants to stop.” This is absent in Rep. George Santos. He seems entirely unbothered, the human embodiment of a guiltless, knowing smirk. Instead, according to that Insider article, his lies may erupt from a selection of other conditions: low self-esteem, narcissism, psychopathy, Machiavellianism, or some ambiguous salad of them all. None of that is good. Yet I can’t help supporting him. I want him to be happy, and if lying enables that to occur, well, what choice do I have.
Not everyone joins me in supporting Rep. George Santos, but I do not think most people’s opinion is of much substance. Mark Chiusano, author of the novel on which HBO is basing their film, has described the story of Rep. George Santos as “a tragedy.” Politico cheekily described his year in Congress as “fantastic.” The New York Times wrote about his “pattern of deception.” My friend said, without shame, that he gives her “hope.” He claimed in a self-built ranting chamber that he was both the “Republican ‘It Girl’” and “The Mary Magdalene of the United States Congress.” And it is this defiance of definition, I think, which draws us to him. He has seemed to flit through our lives, dusting them with chaos and a knowing wink. Oh, his mischief. Little he has done or claimed seem politically useful, instead serving merely as the next step in a ceaseless quest for attention, the next square in a game of hedonistic hopscotch.
I cannot help but respect him. Rep. George Santos wanders through time in search of pleasure and money and attention—unencumbered by ethics or truth to achieve these goals. When called out for this flippancy, he simply shrugs, grins, and walks away. And I let him. I allow, perhaps encourage, him to walk from fib to fib, victim to victim. For, as with any parasocial relationship, ours is underlaid by envy.
Oh, how I wish to live briefly within his head. To roam through the meadow of possible things, pluck a few, and claim them as grown from my own palms. To look over my shoulder at rows of my victims, blink, and return forward, still effulgent and smirking and ready to create more. To do so, and walk away into the dusk, knowing the sun will rise again tomorrow.
An Editor-in-Chief, 2025-2026.
