I wish I was confident enough in my assertions to tell you what I think it means that the only running shoes you can buy anymore come in bright neon, look-at-me colors. I wish I knew what to call a guy who sees fit to put a sticker with a hand giving the Shocker on the back of his car, other than a douchebag. I wish I didn’t like mayonnaise and eating frosting right out of the tub because I know you think both are gross. I’d like to browse a bookstore without wondering what my selections say about me. I hate that I roll up the windows when Taylor Swift comes on the radio because I’m ashamed that I know all of the lyrics and that  I am belting them out and that I had the radio on in the first place. I’ll never be a type, you know, I’m certainly not the type of girl that’s cool and unflappable and ahead of the curve. I’m not hip or athletic or a wonk. I like bad music and good books and I can’t pull off leopard print or bangs or maxi dresses or accents. I just wish I didn’t think about it so damn much.