There is a place in the world for fangirls. For inexplicable crushes and devotion to—not a person, exactly, but something that takes the shape of a person, who for all practical purposes is a person, and yet his or her personhood is strangely irrelevant.
When I was a teenager, I fell in love with Tori Amos. I was not alone in my love, not by a long shot, not even above the curve in the intensity of my love, the single-minded-ness with which I pursued her. There were thousands of us across the country, fifteen year old girls with our hearts in our throats at the sound of her breath, the palms of our hands empty of her hips as we watched her rock back and forth on the piano bench. She was glorious. And she understood me.
I write this because I have decided to stop being embarrassed. I am fangirling again. That's all.