The first thing anyone should know about me is that I’m a piece of shit. No, really. You don’t have to feel bad about it. You also shouldn’t think I’m joking. My shittiness stems from the fact that I’m just the kind of person who takes pride in having “better taste” than anyone else. Like when I was 11, I read Pride and Prejudice and everybody in my grade knew. While they read Captain Underpants (which I also definitely read), I made sure people knew me for having standards. I never explicitly gloated like “I read Jane Austen I’m so much more literate than you lowly sixth grade peasants,” but I would definitely occasionally name drop. “Oh you brought pudding for lunch? Well, JANE AUSTEN loooooved banana pudding. At least that’s what I read anyway.”
I still kind of act like I’m 11 sometimes, meaning I still like to pretend that I have taste. To keep myself in the world of pretentiousness, I’ve been doing a peculiarly helpful exercise since junior year of high school—I keep a list of guilty pleasures. The list keeps me in check. If the list gets too long, too ridiculous, or too embarrassing, I make myself stop liking something.
Yes, it’s absurd.
But I’m too far into my little game, and at this point I’ve pretty much developed a scientific formula for loving trash but still being “someone with taste.” I’ve devised a process meant to help you check yourself (and your taste) before you wreck yourself.
The first step is to make the list. You have to give yourself an honest, non-judgmental space to really discover the trash you truly love. Maybe E! has some good shows. Maybe Total Divas, a show starring the WWE female wrestlers (and sometimes featuring hot and sweet meme-god John Cena), is kind of entertaining and arguably empowering. (I said arguably.) Perhaps Jason Derulo is not as awful as people think. His music is catchy for a reason. His words about your booty, that it’s like two planets, that you have a “bright future behind you,” and that “your booty don’t need explaining,” are fucking poetry and incredibly flattering. Thanks, Jason, you’re right. My booty don’t need explaining.
The next step is to judge and hate yourself. Jason Derulo? Are you serious? You’re going to just bypass all the problematic issues that arise with Derulo’s lyrics, which eroticize women’s bodies, particularly women of color’s bodies? And WWE? You’re condoning violence for the entertainment of the masses on a trashy network? You probably shouldn’t like either, and you definitely should not like like both. One of them has to go.
So what do you do? You move on to cost-benefit analysis. You have to narrow down your list. How often are you really going to enjoy Total Divas? Do you even watch TV anymore? Jason, however, will follow you wherever you go. He’ll be played everywhere, from the JWW mailroom to the popular Vines on the Internet to the next big party in your dorm. Choose your poison wisely.
Finally, re-assess every so often. Some guilty pleasures will last a lifetime. For example, as a Latina, I just can’t give up on trashy pop collaborations that end with (feat. Pitbull). I will love Enrique Iglesias and Pitbull’s “Tonight I’m Loving You” until I am an abuela who can no longer booty pop. Dale! But, I can definitely give up on things like reading People Magazine. I only care about celebrities during awards show season anyway.
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