When I was about 20, I was explaining the texture of my favorite milkshake to a few new friends, with the fervor of a Baptist preacher. The blend level! The chunks! The density! One of them scrunched up her face in disgust and asked, “Are you one of those people who’s really passionate about food?” Another spoke up in my defense: “She’s one of those people who’s passionate about everything.”
It’s a moment I’ve come back to repeatedly in the years since—one of those times where a near-stranger picks up something fundamental about you, and it clicks into place in your brain. (Is there anything more pleasurable to the narcissist than being seen this way?) Still, why couldn’t I have figured out that personality trait on my own, maybe after listening to myself rant for 10 full minutes about how Daria was a “VERY IMPORTANT SHOW”? It’s no coincidence that one of my favorite words is “hyperbolic.” I cannot “act like I’ve been there.” I have no chill. I am jazzed.
This newsletter is called Swear to God because it’s a phrase I say—or yell—way too often, especially as someone at the age when doctors recommend starting calcium supplements. It’s something I used to say a lot more, admittedly, when I was capital-d Discovering things left and right: out in the world as a journalist, buying giant bottles of Aquafina in airports twice a month, attending press events where we’d strap on VR headsets and “visit” the bottom of the ocean—experiencing. Now I don’t get around much anymore, what with the whole not-wanting-to-die thing. And my cheer has taken a hit in the wake of a layoff that has left me feeling extremely...weird. (More on that later, but did you know that it’s possible to cry on a spin bike?)
These days, my swear-to-Gods are made up of things I can experience inside my bubble: some under-watched UK comedy show, an at-home anti-wrinkle laser (since I can’t pay a woman with an impeccable haircut to fix my face), a citrus squeezer that feels fucking amazing in your hand. I’m operating under limitations, but I still find myself *amped*.
At the [loud throat-clearing] place I used to work, there was a whole category of publications called the Enthusiast Group—magazines devoted to people who knew everything about mountain bikes or Japanese watches. I may not have a formal title, but I consider myself an enthusiast who’s gone rogue. Each week, I’ll be sharing something I love here—an object, a piece of entertainment, or an abstract concept—because there’s nothing I like more than evangelizing about incredible shit to anyone who’s willing to listen. So welcome. Get psyched. You’re gonna love this stuff, I swear to God.