#unwrapped

This would fix it. Adrianne Lenker’s name would appear, or Phoebe Bridgers, probably both, a corrective to this bizarre “POP” nonsense.

The screen dissolved and a new image loaded. It was a photo of a gorgeous blonde, all glossy lips and shimmering eyeshadow, blowing a kiss in her signature bodysuit. The name “Sabrina Carpenter” materialized underneath in that same bold font.

I stared. My brain refused to process the information. It was like seeing a picture of a stranger labeled as your mother. The cognitive dissonance was a physical jolt.

“No,” I said, my voice firm. “No, that’s not right.”

I swiped again, faster now, my nerves getting to me. Olivia Rodrigo. Ariana Grande. Gracie Abrams. Renee Rapp. My top five artists. A lineup of purely mainstream pop. This had to be some kind of joke. This was the kind of music I openly derided as “manufactured,” “bubblegum,” and even “bimbo pop.” Music for people who didn’t want to think, just feel a cheap, fleeting thrill. Gracie was the only one on that list that I could say I’d listened to a bit, but still not enough to crack my top five!

A hot flush of embarrassment crept up my neck, as if someone had exposed a deeply shameful secret. This was a mistake. Some kind of algorithmic error. My thumb moved on its own, swiping through more of the report, frantically needing to find the card that said “Just Kidding!” before revealing my real, tasteful list.

But the report continued, each card delivering a deeper betrayal.

“You spent 6,843 minutes with Sabrina!” a cheerful message chirped. “That’s more than 90% of her listeners in your city!”

When? When??? I wracked my brain. I remembered playing her new album once, as a morbid curiosity, while cleaning the bathroom. I’d half-listened, critiquing the production in my head. That was it. Forty-five minutes, if that.

“Your anthem of the summer was ‘Please, Please, Please’ by Sabrina Carpenter!”

A memory, faint and hazy, surfaced. Driving with the windows down on a blistering July day. A pop beat, infectious and light. My fingers, painted an uncharacteristic pink, tapping on the steering wheel. My head nodding along, almost imperceptibly. But no. I would’ve switched it off. I was sure of it. I’d put on a podcast instead.

“You’re a top fan! You played "Espresso" 227 times.”

The number was painfully specific, and damning. A sense of uneasy dread began to mix with the confusion. Two hundred and twenty-seven times. You don’t do that by accident. You don’t do that ironically.

I fired off a quick text to Courtney. “You were absolutely right. Completely glitched for me too.”

As I stared at the number, another memory unlocked. Not a hazy one, but sharp and clear. Me, in the gym, wireless earbuds in, sweat dripping down my temples. The pulsing, driving beat of “Espresso” fueling my reps, a giddy smile on my face as I mouthed the lyrics, “I’m working late, ‘cause I’m a singer…” I felt a ghost of that energy now, a little zip of excitement in my chest.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the false memory. That wasn’t me. I listened to atmospheric post-rock at the gym. I…

Another flash. Singing at the top of my lungs in the shower, my voice echoing off the tiles, performing a dramatic, soapy rendition of Olivia Rodrigo’s “Vampire.” The steam, the energy, the sheer fun of it.

My anxious grip on my phone loosened. The conviction that this was a mistake was melting away, replaced by a strange, warm sense of certainty. Of course I’d listened to it. Why would I lie to myself? This music was… good. It was fun. It made me happy. Short n’ Sweet and Guts were basically the soundtrack for my commute, and Man’s Best Friend slotted right into that mix on repeat when it came out. I remembered eagerly awaiting the album drop at the end of August.

I looked up from the screen and caught my reflection in the dark windowpane. My face, usually framed by my natural, loosely curled brown hair, seemed different. My hair looked… smoother. Shinier. As I watched, a few subtle highlights, caramel blonde, seemed to weave themselves through the strands near my face. I blinked, and my eyes seemed brighter, a touch more wide-eyed.

A giddy laugh escaped my lips, and it sounded different. Higher. Lighter. It wasn’t my usual measured, cynical chuckle. It was a giggle. A bubbly, effervescent sound.

The Wrapped report continued. My music “Club” was Club Serotonin - too perfect. I’m all about being happy. My “Listening Age” was 21, naturally. I smiled along to Sabrina’s video message. God, her blonde hair is totally hashtag goals.

“Oh my god,” I giggled again, the words feeling new in my mouth. “Maybe I am, like, a top fan!”

I pushed the blanket off and stood up, feeling strangely restless. For Melancholy Brunettes (& Sad Women) was still playing quietly from my headphones, its somber melodies now feeling slow, dreary, and deeply boring.

“Ugh, what was I thinking listening to this?” I said to the empty room, my voice taking on a new cadence, peppier, with an upward lilt at the end of my sentences. I skipped over to my bluetooth speaker and connected my phone. With a few taps, I pulled up my “On Repeat” playlist. It was, of course, a non-stop party of pop perfection. I hit shuffle.

The opening synth chords of a Renee Rapp song filled the apartment, loud and confident. A jolt of pure energy shot through me. My hips started swaying automatically, a loose, rolling motion that felt innate, natural. I caught my reflection again in the glass of a picture frame. My posture was different. My shoulders were back, my back slightly arched. I was… popping my hip.

I looked down at my clothes. My typical laidback uniform: an oversized flannel shirt, baggy ripped jeans, thick wool socks. They suddenly felt frumpy, shapeless, dull. I felt a powerful urge to be brighter, tighter, shinier. I practically danced to my bedroom, cranking up the volume on my phone so that the pop beat blasting from the speaker followed me down the hall.

I threw open my closet doors and stared at my racks of clothes. All the muted tones, the earthy colors, the practical fabrics. I knew it was all mine, but suddenly it felt like I was looking at someone else’s closet. My eyes darted to a single, forgotten item shoved in the back - a tiny, sparkly halter top I’d bought for a themed party years ago and never worn again.

That, I thought, is so cute. So me.

I pulled off the flannel shirt and let it drop to the floor without a second thought. I wriggled into the sparkly top. It was tight, hugging curves I suddenly seemed more aware of. I shimmied out of my jeans and found a pair of faux leather pants that I don't think had ever seen the light of day. I slipped them on. They felt amazing. I looked in the full-length mirror.

A total stranger stared back, but she was fabulous. The transformation was accelerating. My hair was now unmistakably blonde, falling in soft, sleek waves around my shoulders. My face seemed softer, my lips fuller and glossier without me having even done a thing. My eyes, once sharp and analytical, now sparkled with a vacant, cheerful light. I felt an overwhelming need for makeup.

I dove into my makeup bag, tossing out my matte brown lipsticks and neutral eyeshadows. I needed glitter. I needed highlighter. I needed a lip gloss that looked like totally wet and kissable. I started applying everything with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, blending shimmering pink shadows onto my lids, painting my lips a juicy, glossy pink.

The mental shift was the most profound. The nagging voice in my head that analyzed, criticized, and overthought everything—the voice that would have been screaming about this whole situation being a horrific violation of something or other—was just… gone. In its place was a pleasant, sunny hum, perfectly synchronized to the beats still pumping from the speaker. Thoughts came simple and bright, usually one at a time, like bubbles rising to the surface.

I look so hot.

This song is fire.

I need to go dancing.

I turned up the music, loud enough to feel the bass in my chest. I started dancing for real, not just a subtle sway but a full-body performance. I shook my hips, I tossed my hair, I raised my arms over my head and twirled. I felt amazing. Free. I wasn’t worrying about the meaning of the lyrics; I was just feeling the vibes. The beat told my body what to do, and I happily obeyed.

My phone buzzed on the bed. It was Courtney, following up.

“So? Your Wrapped? Yours is messed up too? What did it say?”

I picked my phone up, typing back with frantic, excited thumbs, my long, now-manicured nails clicking on the screen.

“OMG Court!!!!! Mine is actually SO ACCURATE!!!!!! 😍😍🔥🔥🔥”

I added a string of heart-eye and fire emojis. I didn't normally do that, but it felt right.

“It’s literally me!!! Sabrina Carpenter is my QUEEN I listened to Espresso like a million times!!!!!! We HAVE to go see her when she tours again!!!!!”

Three blinking dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Then Courtney’s response came.

“…Christina? Is that you?”

I giggled and texted back. “Duh! Last I checked! Who else would I be? LOL! You were so wrong before, Spotify is totally on point this year!”

I put the phone down, not waiting for her reply. I had to listen to the new Kesha album. All the way through. Right now.

I spent the next hour deep-diving into my Wrapped, each statistic a delightful little affirmation. Apparently I was a “recruiter” role in my “club”.  I beamed. It was so true! I was bubbly and loved sharing my fave songs with all of my friends! I pulled up my "Top Songs of 2025” mix again on my phone to check how many followers it had, all the while dancing around my apartment, enjoying the feel of my favorite halter top against the bouncy curves of my tits.

The indie and folk music I’d spent years collecting felt like a dusty relic from a past life, a life that seemed complicated and boring and frankly, exhausting. Why would anyone want to listen to music that made them feel sad? Or think about complex metaphors? That was, like, so deep and weird. Pop music was simple. It was about feeling good. It was about looking hot and having fun. And it was, without a doubt, so totally my vibe.

The next morning, I woke up with a new kind of energy. I practically bounced out of bed, threw on a bright pink workout set, and plugged in my headphones. My morning routine needed a soundtrack. As I made my coffee, Sabrina Carpenter sang Espresso to me for the two-hundred-and-twenty-eighth time. Gawd, I loved her music so much. Short and sweet and sexy, just like me.

In the car, I rolled down the windows and blasted Olivia Rodrigo, singing at the top of my lungs without a care for who heard me. At the gym, my workout was powered by pure pop energy. I caught a guy looking at me as I shook my hips on the elliptical, and I just gave him a bright, giggly smile. He smiled back.

I ran into Courtney, looking SO cute, as I left my fave coffee shop later that day. Her eyes widened as I approached, my steps light and practically prancing. I was wearing a fluffy jacket, short shorts, and knee-high boots. My old boring wardrobe seemed to have disappeared overnight, but I sure wasn’t gonna complain.

“Christina?” she said, her voice laced with disbelief.

“Hey, girlie!” I squealed, air-kissing near her cheek. “Oh my god, I love your hair. Is that a new gloss? It’s so shiny.”

She just stared at me, her mouth slightly agape. “What… what happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, tilting my head. I glanced down and examined my outfit. The question made no sense. “Ooh, I just got my nails done.” That must be what she meant! I wiggled my glittery fingers at her. “Aren’t they sooo adorable?”

“No… I mean yes! I mean, your… your music,” she stammered, lowering her voice. “Your Wrapped. You were so weird about it yesterday. First you said it was glitched like mine, then you started talking like you were bodysnatched or something. Now all of… this? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

I let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, that! I was just being silly. I was totally overthinking it. Of course it’s accurate! It’s, like, data. Duh. Totally not that deep!” I leaned in conspiratorially. “Literally just between us besties, I think I was just, like, scared to admit how much I love a good pop song, you know? But life’s too short to not jam to the good stuff!”

I saw the confusion and dawning horror in her eyes, but I couldn’t connect to it. Her vibe was totally harshing my mellow.

“Anyways!” I said, my tone bright. “Enjoy your coffee or whatever, but I gotta run! I totally found a literal gold mine of the coolest unreleased Sabrina tracks online earlier, and I wanna see if I can, like, figure out how to load them on my phone! Love ya, mean it, laters!”

I breezed past the cafe doors, my boots clicking a cheerful tempo on the pavement as I went. The December air was brisk, but the sun was shining and a pop song was playing in my head. My body was wiggling and jiggling to a rhythm that felt as essential as my own heartbeat. I was happy. I was hot. The serotonin was seriously flowing.

I had no idea what everyone was talking about. Spotify Wrapped was totally accurate this year.

After all, pop music was so totally me.

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