Once upon a time, I was a tired third year law student who spent most of my time languishing in ivory towers. My worst class was with a racist, sexist, ableist professor who looked down her nose at everyone beneath her (which, she felt, was everyone). I complained a ton about her to my friends over board games and pizza.
One day, after a particularly grueling late night, I sent my most patient friend a text: “I wish I were superlatively special to someone.” It was a text borne of irritation that people with children and partners were allowed more latitude to go home and be with their loved ones while single people “had nothing better to do” than work anyway (I tell you, this professor was a nightmare). It came from the loneliness each single person faces at some point in their life when they look at the endless Facebook posts and sugar-sweet hand holding and think: “Why doesn’t someone want me like that?”
He responded saying I was special to him. But I argued it didn’t count as “superlative” unless you were literally willing to drop everything for the other person. We went back and forth for a bit because we were nerds in law school.
And then, he sent me this:
So, I heard a fictional character describe…