Pop Punk Therapy (Kristen’s Version)

Kristen Rosasco

I. THIRTY, FLIRTY, AND DEEPLY UNWELL

They told me thirty would feel like

freedom—

like a crisp Chardonnay in an overpriced glass,

like a mortgage,

like knees that don’t audibly crack

when you squat down to pick up the crumbs

of your twenty-something mistakes.

But I’m here in my room—

a room that is covered in crumbs even though there is a strict no food upstairs rule,

A room that eerily resembles my teenage bedroom that thankfully still only lives in my memory

Well, sort of… *gestures vaguely*

I’m still having a mental breakdown in my underwear

Mascara coated tears still streaming down my cheeks

and since being a mom doesn’t leave much room for literally anything else

I’m still standing in front of a dusty mirror

wearing a t-shirt that says

“I PAUSED MY ANIME FOR THIS?”

staring at my reflection and screaming—

“If you could see that I’m the one who understands you!”

with the emotional stability

of a raccoon in a thunderstorm.

(Because even I don’t understand myself anymore…)

⸻

II. THE SACRED RITUAL OF REGRESSION

There’s a method to the madness.

First, I light a candle that smells like

“Cozy Cabin”

(a lie. I live in messy, stained suburban hellascape

with a leaky faucet,

two major appliances that don’t work,

and 3 tiny roommates who call me cringe).

Then, I open Spotify like it’s the Ark of the Covenant,

search: TAYLOR SWIFT OG ERA,

and prepare to summon

my inner dramatic-ass teen

who thought wearing Converse to prom

was an act of social rebellion

on par with the Boston Tea Party.

You Belong With Me begins.

And suddenly, I’m fourteen again,

mad at a boy who never looked at me,

even though I definitely

wrote him a very subtle poem called

“your eyes are like the apocalypse

but hotter.”

I press play.

I ascend.

I time travel via bridge.

“She wears short skirts / I wear depression”

or whatever the lyric is.

Same vibe.

⸻

III. THE DANCE FLOOR IS LAVA (AND ALSO CARPETED)

Cue the chaos.

My body moves with the grace

of a drunk muppet.

Arms flailing like I’m signaling

a plane to land in my driveway.

I knock ov