Let’s Get Weirder in 2025

It’s the season of gift guides, Spotify Wrapped, and year-in-reviews—the annual parade of listicles engineered for maximum clicks. Gift guides, in particular, have become their own bizarre genre of marketing theater. Every influencer, Substack writer, and brand seems to have their take on the things you didn’t know you needed. What may have started as a straightforward way to showcase sponsors has ballooned into a frenzy of hyper-curated consumerism and embraced by everyone on the internet, from media giants to neighborhood micro-influencers. But beneath the endless links and affiliate codes, there’s an opportunity lurking: it might finally be our moment to get weird. Unhinged. Un-marketable. Like those wonderfully ridiculous Christmas movies with their bonkers plot twists, I think now is a great time to let our freak flags fly.

Substack didn’t create list-based recommendation culture, but it’s certainly at the forefront of it. These days, everyone fancies themselves a writer (myself included). Whatever your niche, there’s a Substacker with a twice-weekly newsletter tailored to it—and many charge for access. To justify those subscriptions, writers churn out content like a one-person magazine, leaning on reliable formats like gift guides, personal roundups, and other crowd-pleasers.

This creates an ecosystem so dense it’s starting to eat itself. Subscribe to one Substack, and you’re quickly tangled in a web of cross-references and recycled ideas. As Emily Sundberg points out in The Machine in the Garden, Substack’s monetization model pushes writers toward what’s marketable, not what’s inventive. She likens it to the early days of Instagram, when improved smartphone cameras turned photography into endless variations of the same polished aesthetic. Brands embraced this slick, authentic-looking content, fueling the rise of influencers and creating a landscape where income often overshadows creativity. Substack is no different.

Instead of photos, Substack packages writing into its own marketable formula. It’s turned intimacy into a product, making vulnerability part of the brand. As Sundberg notes, “I’m noticing this platform has become a really good way for women to monetize their diary entries—lists, random thoughts, and (easy to write) roundups of ‘what I’ve been doing’ do really well on this site.” The diary-like tone may feel personal, but it reinforces Substack’s version of sameness.

Maybe because of all this, I’ve found myself craving something entirely different. I’ve been visiting museums, watching and playing sports, and flipping through print magazines instead. Few things feel as wonderfully escapist as getting lost in the pages of a British interiors magazine (yes, I know how stuffy that sounds). Magazines like House & Garden or The World of Interiors showcase eclectic homes filled with hand-selected furniture, much of it older than the internet itself. Each room is a layered expression of generations of personal taste—authentic, unique, and somewhat free of algorithms.

In An Ode to Having Taste, Marlowe Granados (a Substack writer who I found through another Substack writer) skewers the growing trend of people who try to seem interesting by broadcasting the things they consume. They're the people who wear certain brands and make public displays of their preferences—it's a version of gift guide culture. Her solution is simple but radical: cultivate your own taste.

“You recognize taste when you step into someone’s world and it feels like you’ve been transported. You may never know that person’s interior life but you see hints of it everywhere. The effort the person has made to surround themselves with things they love and find beautiful is so clear. The effect on the visitor should not be to replicate their exact sensibilities but for you to develop your own more deeply. ”

That’s it. Game recognizes game. The goal isn’t to copy someone else’s taste—it’s to let it inspire your own. Let it fuel your weirdness.

Emily Tobin, in the November issue of The World of Interiors, hit a similar note in her editor’s letter: 

“I suspect the inhabitants of at least one of these houses would be utterly bemused at the thought of living in any of the other spaces set out on these pages—and thank goodness for that. What a relief that we’re not all conforming to the same criteria. One person’s minimalism is another’s misery and vice versa.” 

In a world that’s constantly trying to sand down every edge to make things marketable, unapologetically being yourself is the most effective rebellion.

Sometimes, I miss the internet’s old messiness. MySpace was a shrine to individuality, every profile a reflection of its owner. Tumblr encouraged freeform creation without needing a narrative. Today, the web feels paved over and sometimes unsurprising. Spotify Wrapped, which used to feel like a quirky, delightful gift, now reads more like a corporate earnings report. A tweet summed it up perfectly: “They didn’t tell me whether that gay little town in Vermont still matches my music taste.”

My Wrapped once told me that I preferred to start my days with “Evocative Transcendental Sorrow.” Where was that unrivaled absurdity this year? I want them to tell me what I listened to without actually telling me what I listened to. One of my favorite artists hit the nail on the head when she posted, “to everyone who had me in their wrapped: u ok?” (she writes a lot about anxiety and depression.) Now that’s the pithy hot take I’m craving!

Most content today is highly marketable. But what if we stepped away from that? What if we created things simply because they were cool, weird, or undeniably ours? The rare exceptions—the things that truly feel alive—stand out now more than ever. Take RAIR’s holiday cards: pure genius. They’re bizarre and brilliant, radiating individuality in every shot. They’re proof that the chaotic, personal spirit of the internet is still alive somewhere.

In 2025, let’s make more of that. 

about aml

Hi, I’m Anne Marie (she/her), a designer and diy-er based in Philadelphia, PA. I work with businesses of all sizes to navigate the complexities of building a brand with limited resources. Find me on Instagram, LinkedIn, and reach me directly at annemarie@amlindemann.com.