I’m currently rewatching Pretty Little Liars, a show that boldly asks, “What if we took four teenage girls, gave them unlimited data plans, and then traumatized them for sport?”

Every episode is a new adventure in:

• Why are you going into the woods alone?
• Why are you trusting that person?
• Why are you wearing that to school?
• Why does no one have a parent who is actually parenting?

I yell at the screen like it’s a sport. I gasp. I clutch my chest (as if I don’t know what’s going to happen already). Then I remember, Kelsey, it’s a teenager show. Get a grip. Process then restarts.

Meanwhile, James walks by, glances at the screen, and says something like, “Didn’t that girl die?” And I have to respond, “Well, yes, but also no, but also maybe,” which is exactly the energy this show thrives on. He repeats back, as he always does, “Kelsey, you already know what happens and how it ends.”

I rewatch shows over and over. It’s a habit I am told as part of anxiety. Which it totally is, but I regret nothing. In about a year or so, I will be watching it again as if I never have before.