There’s a bigshot intellectual at this party, some internet tech celeb I’m supposed to know. Everyone’s credentials are impressive here, or rather, I’m the least impressive person in the room. I stand up straighter and try looking smarter, like the kind of person who uses the word amalgam instead of mixed or combination.
There’s a cake in the kitchen, where the internet celeb is holding court. I excuse my way through the entire room, which I estimate is approximately 50 cakes wide, apologizing to every single person I touch — I guess to say sorry for touching them or wanting cake or being a moving person. I apologize for being in front of their faces, next to their faces, behind their faces, pretty much anywhere a face could look and I might inhabit. Sorry for existing, everyone! But I need that fucking life preserver — I mean chocolate cake.
Wherever I go, someone says hello and introduces me as such: “This is Marika, she’s the most [adjective-iest] person I know!” Hilarious, brilliant, creative, talented. Each compliment feels like I’m being doused in buckets of ice water. All I hear is “Marika is the most,” which is something I’m used to navigating. You are so extra, everything about you is just too much.