“The Strange and Embarrassing Things I Believe Make Me Unique”

or

“Main Character Syndrome: A Memoir”

We all want to be special. Maybe not “start a cult” special, but at least “the barista remembers my order” special. And me? I’m deeply, passionately convinced I’m one-of-a-kind—despite the overwhelming evidence that I am, in fact, just another over-medicated, nostalgia-worshipping, introverted extrovert with a Pinterest board titled “vibes.”

Still, here are the things that make me feel like a snowflake. A dramatic, over-analyzing, slightly unhinged snowflake.

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1. I Know What That Actor’s From

You know that moment when you’re watching something and a character walks on screen and everyone in the room says, “Why do they look familiar?” That’s when I spring into action like a human IMDb. Not only do I know where they’re from, I know their ex, their current PR-staged relationship, their drama with the director, and where they were spotted last Tuesday. I am the oracle of mid-tier celebrity gossip. Honestly, it’s a public service.

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2. My Music Taste is Frozen in High School

My go-to playlist? It’s not curated. It’s fossilized. It’s still “emo night in the back of your mom’s car.” I’m talking Fall Out Boy, Paramore, Twista, Gym Class Heroes, and Dear Maria, Count Me In at full volume. I have become my dad, only instead of Springsteen, it’s Panic! At The Disco. I still say things like, “This was my first concert,” or, “I saw them when I was 17,” as if that gives me generational credibility. It doesn’t. It just makes me someone who peaked during MySpace.

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3. I’m the Fast & Furious Franchise’s Biggest Fan

Listen. I know the movies are ridiculous. But they are art. I have a goldfish memory, which means I can rewatch them endlessly and it’s like the first time every time. They have it all: gravity-defying stunts, muscle cars, bromances, explosions, tank tops, street racing, international heists, and 87 references to “family.” You think Shakespeare captured the human experience? Try watching Dom Toretto survive a car crash that defies both physics and common sense—and not feel something.

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4. I Treat Inanimate Objects Like They’re Plot Devices

That hoodie I haven’t worn since 2019? Can’t donate it. What if I need it for a sudden coming-of-age montage? That weird rock I picked up on a walk once? Spiritually significant. That crumpled receipt from a date that went nowhere? I need it. For the scene in the movie where I finally let go and grow.

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5. I Narrate My Life in My Head Like I’m in an Indie Film

There’s always a soundtrack. There’s always dialogue. There’s always a monologue I’ll never say aloud, but God it’s good. Sometimes I cry while imagining the camera slowly zooming in on me while rain hits the window. For legal reasons, no one is allowed to ever read my Notes app.

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6. I Don’t Know Who Phoebe Bridgers Is

I know, I know. She’s sad girl canon. But I have somehow missed this cultural moment entirely. I keep seeing her name paired with words like “haunting” and “ethereal” and “bones.” And I nod like I get it. I do not. I don’t know her music. I don’t know her vibe. She might be standing behind me right now and I’d assume she’s there to repossess my emotions. Honestly? I’m a little scared of her. She has the energy of someone who’d hand me a poem and a curse at the same time.

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7. I Don’t Like Beyoncé

There, I said it. I don’t hate her. I respect her. She’s a powerhouse. But I’ve never willingly listened to an entire album. Her music doesn’t do it for me, and when I say that out loud, people look at me like I just admitted I eat drywall. I know this makes me a social liability, but I’ve accepted my fate. I’m not in the Hive. I’m in the corner, vibing to Evanescence and wondering if that makes me culturally bankrupt.

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8. [Redacted due to self-awareness overload]

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9. I Talk to Myself Like I’m a Therapist, Friend, and TV Host at the Same Time

My inner dialogue is not chill. It’s a 3-ring circus. I’ll be getting dressed and say, “Okay, girl. We’re gonna wear pants. Yes, we are. We’re not going to cry into this sweater again.” Then five minutes later, I’m in the mirror giving myself an Oscar speech: “I’d like to thank the anxiety that made this all possible.” I speak to myself in different voices depending on the time of day. Morning voice? Self-help coach. Night voice? Stand-up comic on a downward spiral. Midnight snack voice? A raccoon.

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So, yes. These are the things that make me feel like I’m a main character in a movie no one asked for, written by a playwright on too many meds and too little sleep. They’re strange. They’re embarrassing. But they’re me.

And if being this chaotic, nostalgic, emotionally fragile IMDb-certified bundle of quirks makes me unique?

Then I will absolutely keep my Fast & Furious shrine, my high school playlist, and my rejection of Queen Bey.

Because in this economy? Being cringe is cheaper than therapy.