If The Shoe Fits

Don’t you see how belittling this is! I’m not brave for wearing a dress. I’m just living!

My blood turns to lava, and I think I might just explode. Being called brave is one of my biggest pet peeves. When someone calls me brave for going out or wearing a fitted dress or for some other normal thing that every other girl does, what it really means is: I would be mortified to look like you, but good for you for merely existing even if all I can think about is how fat you are and how I’m terrified I’ll one day look like you. So brave.

“Tell us a dad joke!” someone shouts.
Without missing a beat, Beck says, “I’m reading a book about antigravity. It’s impossible to put down.”

“How do you know her type?” I ask. “Her type could be Stanley Tucci for all we know.”
“Actually,” Stacy says, “Stanley Tucci is everyone’s type.”
I nod in solidarity. “Amen.”