I like cute stuff, cry about it.

Alright, I need to get this off my chest before I combust from secondhand stupidity.

For some reason, people see me wearing black, drinking my coffee like it wronged me, minding my business with a naturally deadpan expression and they assume I only listen to ominous choir chanting in Latin and sleep in a coffin lined with dramatic violins.

Cute stereotype.

Wrong, but cute.

Listen closely,

Just because I look like I’m one inconvenience away from becoming a cryptid does NOT mean I don’t enjoy the occasional adorable thing.

Yes, I own plushies.

Yes, I listen to pop music that is embarrassingly upbeat.

Yes, I have playlists that sound like they belong to a teenage girl going through her “sparkle phase.”

And guess what?

I like it.

People act like enjoying cute things is some kind of betrayal to the aesthetic.

As if I’m supposed to hiss at anything pastel or break out in flames if a bubblegum-pop beat hits my ears.

Being “dark” or “vampiric” or whatever label people like sticking on me doesn’t trap me inside a personality coffin.

I can appreciate a brutal bassline and dance to a stupidly catchy chorus that gets stuck in my head for three days.

I can brood at night like a villain and melt over a cat video at 2 a.m.

Duality exists.

Shocking, I know.

So next time someone side-eyes me for humming along to pop music or catching me scrolling through cute art, I’ll simply remind them:

Even monsters have soft spots.

We’re just selective about who gets to see them.

And honestly?

A little cuteness never killed anyone.

Can’t say the same about me, though.