The barista who overheard me say “What’s shakin’?” to my crush.
The crush I said “What’s shakin’?” to.
Everyone in that yoga class. I didn’t do anything particularly weird—I’m just bad at yoga, and I don’t want it to get out.
The man who saw me attempt a striptease while wearing a turtleneck at karaoke. Also, everyone else at that karaoke bar, except maybe the people who were blackout drunk (bless them).
The Gen Z employee I manage at work. Not because the company is doing anything shady, but because I told her that my new favorite album was Olivia Rodrigo’s “Shower.”
The older woman who watched me shed a single tear as a leaf blew away. (Yes, I was hungover. Remember how I did karaoke last night?)
My kindergarten teacher, after I told her that I wanted to be a model when I grew up. She said nothing. I pray she has forgotten.
The group of German tourists who waved at me from their beer tour because it turned out that one of my boobs was accidentally hanging out.
The child on the street who saw me drop my cookie, pick it up, inspect it, dust it off, and eat it.
My first kiss, Jeff Sindler, after he cut himself on my braces and immediately asked my mom if he should go to the hospital.
My last kiss, saved as “Henry Hinge” in my phone, who asked if he could cut my hair on our next date because he had “never seen anything so wild.” He was a banker.
Anyone with access to my Netflix account. If it asks if you want to continue watching “Fiddler on the Roof,” I swear it’s a bug.
My mother, after she read my journals from when I was ages fourteen to eighteen.
Anyone I knew in middle school.
Or high school.
Anyone I ever tried to be “vulnerable” with.
Anyone I’ve ever dated. In particular, the ex whose tweet from 2018 I liked six months after we broke up. (I was just looking for signs that we were wrong together all along—I didn’t find any, but I did show some.)
Anyone I’ve ever gone on a first date with.
Anyone who’s ever seen my Hinge profile.
Anyone who’s ever seen anything I posted on social media.
Or overheard anything I’ve said in private.
Actually, maybe I’m the one who needs to stop disclosing things. My lawyers are getting stressed and keep telling me that this is “highly unnecessary” and a “waste of their time.” Can I just give/get a blanket promise not to talk shit about myself? Going forward, I promise to be way more chill!
My cat. I have no idea what she knows.
Julia Edelman, Ginny Hogan, Jason Adam Katzenstein
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