ABOUT

Every morning I wake up with the same uncontrollable urge.

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I want to take the idea of a “guilty pleasure” and squash it under my foot- sandwich it between the well-worn pages of Little Women, tuck it in a drawer with my tarot cards and pastel highlighters, and drown out its screams with The Lorax at full volume.

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The first girl I ever thought was truly cool wore long skirts with no tags from charity shops and swore she hadn’t watched an animated film since she was a child.

           She also listened to Taylor Swift on YouTube so no one could catch her on Spotify, kept a collection of low-plot romance books hidden in her bedroom, and cried every time she drank because she “didn’t know who she was.”

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I would tell her that I knew exactly who she was - mysterious, untouchable, beautiful and (I wouldn’t say this part out loud) that she didn’t like anything at all, in the entire world.

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I wanted to scream that I was so consumed by loving things, and admiring things, that I could barely do anything at all.

           That every night I sat paralyzed, deciding which book to reread, until hours passed and the sun was coming up.
           That every day I hoped someone else would mention the show I’d been watching so I wouldn’t have to bring it up myself.
           That I said, “They’re playing Taylor Swift,” out loud in restaurants on dates, as an impulse.
That I practised being nonchalant in train windows every morning while Silver Springs played at full volume.

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But instead, when she said, “You’re just so you,” I nodded, went home, and cried myself to sleep.

 

That was a long time ago, but her voice still creeps in —
when I repost my twentieth edit of the day,
when Spotify Wrapped happens,
when new people ask for my Letterboxd.

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She is, however, quiet now.

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           Quiet on birthdays when I haul a stack of board games, a Hamilton vinyl, and a limited edition Pride and Prejudice up to my bedroom.
           Quiet on my saddest days, when I get exactly what I need without asking.
           Quiet when people send me links to things they “just know I’d love.”

Most days now, the feeling of being “much too much” is drowned out by the (still unfamiliar) feeling of being enough.

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Because if “to be loved is to be known,” then I have made a life where it is easy for people to love me.
And if “to be cringe is to be free,” then I am already in the wind.

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To be clear on where we stand, on the important things, at CNoC we love; gay people; trans people; inclusive, preventative and affordable healthcare; Immigrants; changing and adapting education systems; weirdos; ‘bad’ TV; uninhibited joy; people who don't quite know what they're doing; and everyone who is stuck here reading when they should be doing something else. 

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This club has no entry requirements.