As we grow up, we aspire to be the superhero, the badass agent, the alluring witch. But hitting the not-so-ripe age of twenty-six has led me to a confronting yet humorous realisation. I'm not Samantha Stevens. I'm Gladys Kravitz, peering through the window at my neighbours, wondering what chaos will occur!

 

I'm not innocent Cindy Lou Who. I'm the Grinch, rolling my eyes at Christmas music, wishing I could shove the shopping centre's speakers down someone's chimney. I'm not easy-going Penny. I'm Sheldon, praying to the gods that my friends wouldn't speak so loudly, that the fluorescent lights would stop flickering, and that the food I ordered tastes EXACTLY how it did last time!

 

Is it wrong to relate to the anti-heroes? To sigh and say, 'I completely understand why the Joker did that!' or 'Well, Kuzco had it coming, and my god, aren't Yzma's accessories drop-dead-gorgeous?!'

 

There's a weird sense of comfort knowing that others out there share our insanities, quirks, and less-than-heroic characteristics. Nuanced characters that are neither evil nor purely good. From the cunning Loki's to the tormented Gollum's and harsh Miranda Priestly's — we can't ignore these parts of ourselves. But instead, embrace and understand them. Understand the source of pain and insecurity. Give ourselves a hug, a cup of tea, and the comfort of knowing we aren't alone.