The secret life of a closeted stan
I’d like to ask, just for a moment, for you to put yourself in my shoes. I’m standing in line, waiting to order food, when I overhear two girls having a conversation about a thing that they’re a fan of. I, myself, similarly really like this thing — almost a little too much. That’s how I caught their casual reference at all. But the thing about the nature of this thing — and it is quite the thing — is that I would never, ever admit or bring up casually that I’m a fan of it. Hard cut to me, standing in line at Chick-fil-A, feeling like the innermost crevice of my soul has just been pantsed, simultaneously judging them for being so forward with their fangirling, and at the same time achingly wishing I had the guts to be as secure in my interests as they are.