A letter to my Guilty Pleasure
To my Guilty Pleasure.
I know I shouldn’t, that if I were to tell another about our sordid affair they would scoff and ask me questions I have no answer too. And yet I can’t stop. No matter how ridiculous your plotline, how unconvincing the dialogue I keep coming back every time.
Maybe it’s the nostalgia, maybe I’m chasing the abundance of feeling that all teenageers experience. The overblown anguish, the hope of more, the explosion of love (Imagined or not). Some say these aren’t real, I would say it is more real than the numbness adults convince themselves is normal. To escape the inevitable; the heartache, the emptiness of loss or the end we all face.
Real enough that authors continue to capture in fiction, and producers continue to create in television. In all of which I find you, late at night, under my blankets, in the corners of the internet my sisters lead me to.
Away from the judgement of people who claim it is not worth anything. But I digress, it is perhaps one of the most worthwhile things. It is worth the feelings we have all forgotten; of our first crush, the first kiss and our first dream. All of which seems unattainable and lost. But which we can find if we only choose to look, immortalised in teen fiction.