Like every other human being on the planet, I have not always been—nay, have never been—“cool.” I got way too into the Spice Girls at too late an age, was addicted to Pogs to the point of extremism, and wore fuchsia jogging pants well into grade seven when everyone else was wearing Gap.

At 12, I told on my best friend for practicing “devil worship” at recess (they brought a book on Wicca to school), and in high school I was a bonafide wannabe who alternated between “sexy” (nope) pleather pants and skate shoes (because the boy I liked wore them). It got even bleaker when I dyed my hair blonde and tried a shag-meets-mullet combo, believing it made me look “alt.” Because to me, “alt” was cool, even though I didn’t know what that was, and worked at American Eagle at the time.

So when I finally felt like I’d found a “scene” in my early 20s, I congratulated on myself on inevitably making up for lost time. I was into music now. I interviewed bands. I wore clothes that were worn by other people, and I was being paid to go to concerts (and write about them). As far as I was concerned, I mattered. This—this!—was everything I’d been working for. This was the opposite of fuschia jogging pants. Like Alex in the best episode of The Simpsons, I claimed that stuff sucks while nonchalantly leaning against walls. But like Lisa, I just wanted friends—friends who “got” me, even though I already had them.

Throughout my 28 years, I’ve managed to find the best and most genuine people to surround myself with, despite having put them through the ringer at one point or another. In high school, they were friends who called me out on my petty “I hate her” bullshit, and stayed up with me over boys and bad dye jobs. In university, they were the ones who gave me pajama pants when my cat died and I ruined my dress with mascara tears. Into my 20s, they were the ones who didn’t adapt to my slanted worldview, and now, they fall into the same “badass bitch” category.

But despite all that, I was on the hunt for universal “hip” acceptance—as if it’s a thing to actually exist. So for a few years, I discounted the importance of certain friendships to pursue circles of people that happen only in Zach Braff movies: the “hip” and “flawless” people, the fashion posse, the music nerds—the stereotypes we see in pop culture and on various blogs, who just seem so cool. And who, we think—I thought—will make us cool in turn.

And that’s just insulting. Assuming anyone has it figured out is insulting. Liking the idea of somebody is insulting, and believing one type of person to be better than another is insulting. 99% of the time, we’re all human disasters. We’re all Ben Wyatt in Parks and Recreation. (Or more accurately, we are Jerry.) And more importantly, aspiring to coolness is the least cool thing of all.

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with going to shows, interviewing bands, enjoying music, attending DJ nights, leaning against walls, and hating stuff. If that’s what you’re into, as Drake says, you do you. But I’m not. I praised Taylor Swift or the Spice Girls with “You know who I [laugh] like?” prefaces, and pretended I didn’t care about makeup or hair or things I wrote off as being “too girly” (and therefore bad). But not a single one of my real friends expected me to act any way other than like myself, and not a single a single “hip” person gave a shit, either. If I’d gone to a show wearing a Gap hoodie or asked for Selena Gomez at a DJ night, no one would’ve cared. I was projecting a slanted view onto a subculture that didn’t even have any expectations of me. And why should they? We’re all trying our best—in our mid-to-late ‘20s, why would we be looking at other people and pulling high school, “Oh, you’re into that?” bullshit? Nobody here has the time—we’re trying to pay bills.

It took until I physically left the city to actually look at it and its groups and recognize that it wasn’t the cafeteria in Mean Girls. Where you sit and who you hang out with doesn’t dictate how cool you are—no one thinks you’re “hip” because of the jeans you wear. “Cool” isn’t a question of who you know or what music you listen to, it’s a question of whether you’re a decent human being. “Us” versus “them” doesn’t exist—this isn’t The Outsiders. But because of my own insecurities, I was convinced I was Ponyboy getting ready to rumble against the Socs.

Which isn’t a thing. All of us are uncool. We are all un-hip. But thank goodness: that’s why so many different movies/TV shows/bands/artists/books exist. We are all Lisa Simpson finding Homer’s car covered in seashells, surprised that people like us for us. More importantly, we are all Lisa Simpson learning that like they told us all along, we just have to be ourselves. (And I would kill for her tie-dye shirt.)