I don't know if this even counts as a confession, like it’s not illegal or anything but it feels SUPER bad, like deep in my gut bad, and I don't know if anyone else gets this but it's like I have this whole other secret life that no one can ever ever know about and it feels really lonely but also like I DESERVE it for being so fake, you know? So like my whole family, and everyone at my school, they all think I'm this really artsy, deep person because I draw a lot and I'm always reading these big thick books, like Dostoevsky and stuff, because my dad says you have to fill your mind with IMPORTANT things, and he saved up forever just to buy me this really fancy art set even though money is kinda tight, and he's always telling me to use my brain and like really THINK about the world and not just be another sheep, and I try, I really do, but sometimes I just wanna… not think, you know? And I feel so guilty just typing that, like I'm already letting him down. But like I kinda have this really bad secret ritual, it's every Sunday morning and it’s kinda far from my house but I take two buses and I go to this tiny little cafe way out in the middle of nowhere, because no one I know would ever be caught dead there, and I bring one of my dad's big dusty literature books, like a super thick one, because it looks really smart, and then I go in and I order the cheapest coffee, and I find a corner table, and then I pull out this... this awful, bright pink celebrity magazine that I hide inside the big book, and I just read all the stupid gossip about who broke up with who and what stupid outfit someone wore, and it’s SO dumb and SO bad and I can feel my brain cells dying but I just CAN'T STOP, and it’s the only time all week I feel like I can just totally shut off and not have to be smart or deep or creative or anything, just kinda brain-dead and happy looking at pictures of famous people doing dumb stuff, and then I feel SO much shame afterwards, like I’ve wasted time and brainpower and I’m gonna turn into one of those people my dad warns about, someone who doesn’t care about anything REAL. And like, the worst part is I know I should be using that time to draw or write or read something GOOD and important, something that would make my dad proud, something that would like, fuel my artist soul or whatever, but I just… I can’t, and it’s like my brain just needs a break from all the thinking and feeling and creating and everything that everyone expects from me, and I don't know if that makes me a bad person or just tired or what, but it just feels so stupid and wrong to secretly love something so trashy when I'm supposed to be this deep, intellectual person. Like, what if someone found out? I would literally die.