At 17, I went to a bizarre dinner in rural Mexico with my boyfriend’s family and one of their colleagues. It was … weird. But was it a cult? I might never know.
So, let me preface this: I’m not completely sold on the “cult” title. This is probably because the word “cult” sparks instantaneous imagery of hooded figures in white robes with bleary drug eyes, and of 50-day standoffs in the desert heat. And I couldn’t possibly have attended a potluck with a cult leader and his followers, right? I keep denying it out of residual shock and disbelief, but the older I get, the more convinced I feel.
Let me back-track. Imagine a 17-year-old, comically cynical Gabi with frizzy, dyed red hair and a really tragic “thing” for dudes who played Pixies covers on their sick Fenders. Like, come on, Gabs. Have some self-worth! Don’t make out with a closeted Republican just because he can croon some dumb Jeff Buckley song, ya know?