Staring out at the innumerable glowing windows of the New York City skyline, I was struck by the realization that every square contains its own unique story, its own vignettes of infinitely complex lives lived by infinitely complex people. Thank god that every one of those infinite souls is way less popular than me.
In a moment, I was forced to reckon with my own place in a universe of incomprehensible magnitude. I was not the center of the world but merely a well-dressed and good-looking speck in an infinite galaxy, populated with billions of people, some of whom might be pretty cool, but none of whom, I have to say, are as objectively cool as me.
“Who knows what the occupants of the cars flowing along the street below are thinking?” I thought. “They probably aren’t thinking about how they made out with Fitz at Selena Wu’s party, because only I did that. I suppose they could be thinking about how they made out with somebody who isn’t Fitz at some other party. Sure, nobody could compare to Fritz, whose body is so chiseled that it slices right through the miasma of my existential uncertainty. Nevertheless,” I wisely pondered, “all of those thoughts are just as important to them as mine are to me, even if I think everyone would agree that the person they are thinking about making out with is less handsome than Fitz.”
As I reflected on how many people came to my birthday pool party last year, I realized that the thousands of people around me also probably had birthday parties last year, and that some of them probably even had lots of people come. Even though it seems pretty unlikely that any of them would have had as many people come to their birthday party as came to mine, waves of wonder and sadness washed over me.
And then I felt liberated, as I realized that the vastness of the universe meant that my life must be lived for myself alone. There are no limits on my own freedom other than those I create myself. I wept silently in the night as I realized, once and for all, that it did not matter whether the quarterback of the football team had asked me out (although he had), or whether a majority of the class had listed me as the hottest girl in school on their Ask.fm. (although, again, they had), or even whether I had the most people sign my yearbook (which I can only assume they will).
All that mattered, in this uncaring, incomprehensibly vast universe, is that I knew that I was the most popular girl in the world. And none of the millions of joyful, heartbreaking, and infinitely unpredictable lives in progress all around me could ever take that away from me. Except for Susie Semple, if enough of her loser friends vote to make that bitch homecoming queen.
— MH
