Steve_Ramsey
Joined Apr 2015
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A24's Death of a Unicorn is a darkly comedic horror satire, a biting critique of corporate greed, and a hilariously cynical look at late-stage capitalism. Directed by first-time feature filmmaker Alex Scharfman, the film stars Jenna Ortega, Paul Rudd, Will Poulter, Richard E. Grant, and Téa Leoni in a deliciously entertaining, blood-splattered commentary of billionaire excess, pharmaceutical corruption, and the exploitation of the natural world. It's a fast-paced fantasy that's both fun and disturbingly relevant.
The story kicks off with Elliot (Paul Rudd), a single father, and his daughter Ridley (Jenna Ortega) driving deep into the wilderness to meet Odell Leopold (Richard E. Grant), a mega-wealthy pharmaceutical CEO. Odell lives in a remote mansion with his wife Belinda (Téa Leoni) and their son Shepherd (Will Poulter), an insufferable nepo-baby trust-fund bro. The Leopolds are a family defined not by love or morality, but by obscene wealth. They barely tolerate each other and treat their staff like disposable servants. Elliot has business with Odell, though it's clear that there's an undercurrent of desperation: Elliot knows this deal could be life-changing.
Running late, and distracted, Elliot and Ridley accidentally crash into a unicorn with their car, killing the not-so-mythical creature. As the unicorn lays dying, Ridley touches its horn and has a spiritual experience, connecting with the animal. Rather than leaving it behind, they take the unicorn's body with them to the mansion, setting off a chain of events that spiral into mayhem.
Once the unicorn is inside the mansion, Odell and Belinda quickly discover that its horn possesses miraculous healing properties. Odell, who is suffering terminal cancer, scrapes some of the horn's dust and ingests it, restoring his health. Shepherd, their annoyingly privileged son, takes a different approach: shaving it down and snorting it like a designer drug at a trust-fund rave. Naturally, their first thoughts are how to monetize this rare creature.
If Odell can find more unicorns, harvest their horns, and manufacture a miracle drug, they stand to make billions (more). Of course, it's all under the guise of "helping people". Well, those who can afford it. The film relentlessly skewers the hypocrisy of corporate greed.
Ridley, the film's moral compass, is the only one who understands the gravity of the situation. A quick bit of research into unicorn mythology warns her that it's probably not a good idea to exploit unicorns. Of course, no one listens to a teenager.
And these unicorns are vengeful and brutal. The mansion becomes a battleground as Odell's household, including his army of servants and security staff, falls victim to the unicorns' rage. With so many disposable staff members, the film delivers plenty of horn-y, gory kills, always with tongue firmly in cheek. I did begin to wonder why these workers, who are treated so poorly, are willing to fight for the Leopolds. I guess it's classic henchman logic. Once the action ramps up in the third act, the pacing never lets up.
The performances are what elevate the film beyond its simple premise. Paul Rudd is solid as Elliot, playing the role of a well-meaning but morally conflicted father who wrestles with the temptation of wealth and financial security for his daughter. Jenna Ortega continues her hot streak, (she's having such a moment right now) delivering a performance that is both emotionally grounded and charismatic. Will Poulter is hilarious as the obnoxiously entitled Shepherd. It's fun to see him dominate the scenes he's in.
Death of a Unicorn is as much a horror-comedy as it is a scathing commentary on wealth, power, and exploitation. The satire is sharp, skewering not just big pharma but the entire ultra-wealthy class who position themselves as saviors while profiting from human suffering. In a way, it may be a little too on-point, leaving little room for nuance. There is nothing likable about the Leopolds, but then again, fantasy-horror doesn't depend on three-dimensional, complex villains. And the comedy keeps the film from veering into preachiness.
Visually, the film is striking and the unicorns look pretty good. The practical puppets are cool and well crafted, but the CGI unicorns suffer a bit from, well, CGI. Scharfman keeps the pacing brisk, seamlessly blending absurdity, horror, fantasy, and action. The film knows exactly when to be funny, when to be terrifying, and when to hit with its deeper themes.
Death of a Unicorn is a fun, bloody, and hilariously dark ride that proves A24 is still at the top of its game when it comes to genre-bending films. This should land well with horror fans as well as casual moviegoers who don't mind some cartoonish gore. With a stellar cast, sharp writing, and a satirical edge, it's a hard film not to enjoy-both for its laugh-out-loud moments and its critique of wealth and power.
And at the center of it all, a simple truth remains: unicorns don't forgive.
The story kicks off with Elliot (Paul Rudd), a single father, and his daughter Ridley (Jenna Ortega) driving deep into the wilderness to meet Odell Leopold (Richard E. Grant), a mega-wealthy pharmaceutical CEO. Odell lives in a remote mansion with his wife Belinda (Téa Leoni) and their son Shepherd (Will Poulter), an insufferable nepo-baby trust-fund bro. The Leopolds are a family defined not by love or morality, but by obscene wealth. They barely tolerate each other and treat their staff like disposable servants. Elliot has business with Odell, though it's clear that there's an undercurrent of desperation: Elliot knows this deal could be life-changing.
Running late, and distracted, Elliot and Ridley accidentally crash into a unicorn with their car, killing the not-so-mythical creature. As the unicorn lays dying, Ridley touches its horn and has a spiritual experience, connecting with the animal. Rather than leaving it behind, they take the unicorn's body with them to the mansion, setting off a chain of events that spiral into mayhem.
Once the unicorn is inside the mansion, Odell and Belinda quickly discover that its horn possesses miraculous healing properties. Odell, who is suffering terminal cancer, scrapes some of the horn's dust and ingests it, restoring his health. Shepherd, their annoyingly privileged son, takes a different approach: shaving it down and snorting it like a designer drug at a trust-fund rave. Naturally, their first thoughts are how to monetize this rare creature.
If Odell can find more unicorns, harvest their horns, and manufacture a miracle drug, they stand to make billions (more). Of course, it's all under the guise of "helping people". Well, those who can afford it. The film relentlessly skewers the hypocrisy of corporate greed.
Ridley, the film's moral compass, is the only one who understands the gravity of the situation. A quick bit of research into unicorn mythology warns her that it's probably not a good idea to exploit unicorns. Of course, no one listens to a teenager.
And these unicorns are vengeful and brutal. The mansion becomes a battleground as Odell's household, including his army of servants and security staff, falls victim to the unicorns' rage. With so many disposable staff members, the film delivers plenty of horn-y, gory kills, always with tongue firmly in cheek. I did begin to wonder why these workers, who are treated so poorly, are willing to fight for the Leopolds. I guess it's classic henchman logic. Once the action ramps up in the third act, the pacing never lets up.
The performances are what elevate the film beyond its simple premise. Paul Rudd is solid as Elliot, playing the role of a well-meaning but morally conflicted father who wrestles with the temptation of wealth and financial security for his daughter. Jenna Ortega continues her hot streak, (she's having such a moment right now) delivering a performance that is both emotionally grounded and charismatic. Will Poulter is hilarious as the obnoxiously entitled Shepherd. It's fun to see him dominate the scenes he's in.
Death of a Unicorn is as much a horror-comedy as it is a scathing commentary on wealth, power, and exploitation. The satire is sharp, skewering not just big pharma but the entire ultra-wealthy class who position themselves as saviors while profiting from human suffering. In a way, it may be a little too on-point, leaving little room for nuance. There is nothing likable about the Leopolds, but then again, fantasy-horror doesn't depend on three-dimensional, complex villains. And the comedy keeps the film from veering into preachiness.
Visually, the film is striking and the unicorns look pretty good. The practical puppets are cool and well crafted, but the CGI unicorns suffer a bit from, well, CGI. Scharfman keeps the pacing brisk, seamlessly blending absurdity, horror, fantasy, and action. The film knows exactly when to be funny, when to be terrifying, and when to hit with its deeper themes.
Death of a Unicorn is a fun, bloody, and hilariously dark ride that proves A24 is still at the top of its game when it comes to genre-bending films. This should land well with horror fans as well as casual moviegoers who don't mind some cartoonish gore. With a stellar cast, sharp writing, and a satirical edge, it's a hard film not to enjoy-both for its laugh-out-loud moments and its critique of wealth and power.
And at the center of it all, a simple truth remains: unicorns don't forgive.
One of the most exciting aspects of attending a film festival is the element of discovery: randomly screening one film that completely resonates with me. At South by Southwest 2025, that unexpected gem was Bunny, a briskly paced comedy-thriller made on a tiny budget with an utterly irresistible cast of characters. Out of all the films I screened, this is the one that leaves me with a smile on my face every time I think about it.
I hadn't planned on seeing Bunny. In fact, it was only because I couldn't get into another screening that I ended up in the theater. I had no idea what to expect, and within minutes, I was hooked. The premise is simple: a couple of friends enlist their neighbors to help hide a dead body. But rather than unfolding as a tense crime thriller, Bunny embraces chaos with a sharp, quick-witted comedic sensibility. The film is bursting with charm, and its naturalistic performances make it feel entirely authentic.
The world created here feels lived-in and real. The dialogue is unforced and has a certain rhythm to it, making it feel like we're following along in real-time as the events unfold. The cast is partially made up of actual tenants of the apartment building where the movie was filmed, the actual home of the filmmakers. There's an organic quality to their interactions, a real sense of community and family that makes the central absurdity of the story feel believable.
At the heart of the film is Bunny (Mo Stark), a character who exudes an oddball charisma that makes him instantly likable. There's something magnetic about the way Stark plays him, as if he's both completely in over his head and also entirely at ease and in command of the chaos surrounding him. The movie never takes itself too seriously, never losing its emotional core even as the characters make increasingly ridiculous (but always amusing) choices.
Writer-director Ben Jacobson (who also plays Dino) takes an approach that's both bold and intimate. The handheld camerawork adds to the frenetic energy, moving up and down stairwells, weaving in and out of cramped apartments, and constantly shifting perspectives. The film never lingers in one place for too long. It's a fairly large cast, yet every character is distinct, each with their own quirks and idiosyncrasies that make them memorable. It's rare to find a film with this many characters where none of them feel like filler.
It's a single location setting - a small, somewhat gritty apartment building in New York. The film is, in many ways, a love letter to the city, capturing the kind of found families that can form among neighbors in close quarters. There's a rawness to it, but also a deep affection. You get the sense that Jacobson and Stark know and love this space intimately, that they're capturing something real about the way people connect in a place like this.
Beyond its humor and heart, Bunny does have a thrilling undercurrent, driven by the central dilemma of what to do with the body. While the stakes are never played as deadly serious, there's still an element of tension that keeps driving the story forward. Watching the characters scramble to figure out a plan, and seeing how their own personalities and relationships influence their actions is delightful.
I get so happy experiencing art made with such passion. After the screening, I had the chance to speak with Jacobson and Stark, and their enthusiasm was infectious. Seeing how excited they were to have their small indie film premiere at a major festival was a reminder of why I love movies in the first place. Big-budget Hollywood productions rarely carry this kind of raw energy and personal investment. This wasn't a film made to fit neatly into a marketing plan or to chase box office numbers; it was made because the people behind it had to make it. That passion radiates off the screen.
It's also worth noting how universally well Bunny was received. Everyone I spoke to after the screening was buzzing about it. It's the kind of film that makes me feel like I need to immediately text my friends about. There was no other film I watched at SxSW that gave me the kind of pure, unexpected delight that this one did.
At just ninety minutes, Bunny moves at a frenetic pace and never lets up. I could have spent another thirty minutes with these characters. There's a warmth to it, and an energy that's infectious. It's chaotic and comforting, both wild and human.
Bunny will be on my list of the best films of 2025. I can't wait to see it again, and I can't wait for more people to fall in love with these unforgettable characters.
I hadn't planned on seeing Bunny. In fact, it was only because I couldn't get into another screening that I ended up in the theater. I had no idea what to expect, and within minutes, I was hooked. The premise is simple: a couple of friends enlist their neighbors to help hide a dead body. But rather than unfolding as a tense crime thriller, Bunny embraces chaos with a sharp, quick-witted comedic sensibility. The film is bursting with charm, and its naturalistic performances make it feel entirely authentic.
The world created here feels lived-in and real. The dialogue is unforced and has a certain rhythm to it, making it feel like we're following along in real-time as the events unfold. The cast is partially made up of actual tenants of the apartment building where the movie was filmed, the actual home of the filmmakers. There's an organic quality to their interactions, a real sense of community and family that makes the central absurdity of the story feel believable.
At the heart of the film is Bunny (Mo Stark), a character who exudes an oddball charisma that makes him instantly likable. There's something magnetic about the way Stark plays him, as if he's both completely in over his head and also entirely at ease and in command of the chaos surrounding him. The movie never takes itself too seriously, never losing its emotional core even as the characters make increasingly ridiculous (but always amusing) choices.
Writer-director Ben Jacobson (who also plays Dino) takes an approach that's both bold and intimate. The handheld camerawork adds to the frenetic energy, moving up and down stairwells, weaving in and out of cramped apartments, and constantly shifting perspectives. The film never lingers in one place for too long. It's a fairly large cast, yet every character is distinct, each with their own quirks and idiosyncrasies that make them memorable. It's rare to find a film with this many characters where none of them feel like filler.
It's a single location setting - a small, somewhat gritty apartment building in New York. The film is, in many ways, a love letter to the city, capturing the kind of found families that can form among neighbors in close quarters. There's a rawness to it, but also a deep affection. You get the sense that Jacobson and Stark know and love this space intimately, that they're capturing something real about the way people connect in a place like this.
Beyond its humor and heart, Bunny does have a thrilling undercurrent, driven by the central dilemma of what to do with the body. While the stakes are never played as deadly serious, there's still an element of tension that keeps driving the story forward. Watching the characters scramble to figure out a plan, and seeing how their own personalities and relationships influence their actions is delightful.
I get so happy experiencing art made with such passion. After the screening, I had the chance to speak with Jacobson and Stark, and their enthusiasm was infectious. Seeing how excited they were to have their small indie film premiere at a major festival was a reminder of why I love movies in the first place. Big-budget Hollywood productions rarely carry this kind of raw energy and personal investment. This wasn't a film made to fit neatly into a marketing plan or to chase box office numbers; it was made because the people behind it had to make it. That passion radiates off the screen.
It's also worth noting how universally well Bunny was received. Everyone I spoke to after the screening was buzzing about it. It's the kind of film that makes me feel like I need to immediately text my friends about. There was no other film I watched at SxSW that gave me the kind of pure, unexpected delight that this one did.
At just ninety minutes, Bunny moves at a frenetic pace and never lets up. I could have spent another thirty minutes with these characters. There's a warmth to it, and an energy that's infectious. It's chaotic and comforting, both wild and human.
Bunny will be on my list of the best films of 2025. I can't wait to see it again, and I can't wait for more people to fall in love with these unforgettable characters.
I can't stop thinking about Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person. I wish I'd seen this film last year because it would have easily landed on my Top 10 of 2024. It's an emotionally impactful film that offers a unique take on the vampire story.
Vampires, as a monster concept, are endlessly malleable. Besides their cinematic cousins, zombies, there's no other horror subgenre that filmmakers have toyed with and reimagined quite as much. Sure, there are a few basic rules: vampires need blood to survive, and there's usually something that can kill them. But beyond that? It's wide open. Every generation reshapes vampires to fit its anxieties and desires. Some films lean into the sensuality, others the existential dread, others the camp. This film treats vampires almost like a hidden class of people living quietly within society's cracks, similar to What We Do in the Shadows (2014). And it does this with warmth, humor, and a surprising amount of emotion.
At the center of the story is Sasha (Sara Montpetit), a young vampire girl - and by "young" she's actually 68. From the very first scenes, it's clear that Sasha isn't like the rest of her vampire family. Vampires in this world can be born into their condition, the children of vampire parents. Sasha has always needed blood to survive, but her parents have been the ones to provide it. She's never actually killed anyone herself. Instead, she drinks blood with a straw from little bags, like a juice pouch.
Even as a child, Sasha has physical anxiety about the idea of killing. She's compassionate to a fault and her brain is not wired like other vampires. Her parents love her, but they worry something is fundamentally broken in her. By the time she's a teenager, this empathy has become a real problem. Her fangs have never come in, meaning her body physically resists the transformation into a predator. Her parents, frustrated by her reluctance, eventually kick her out, forcing her to live with her stern cousin Denise (Noémie O'Farrell), a much more practical (and bloodthirsty) vampire who refuses to coddle Sasha with hand-delivered blood. If Sasha wants to survive, she has to feed - and for the first time, she'll have to kill.
What makes Sasha's journey so poignant is how deeply human it feels. She's not just wrestling with hunger and survival; she's wrestling with the expectations of her family, tradition, her fear of hurting others, and the terrifying realization that in order to fully become herself, she might have to abandon the very things that make her feel, well human.
Everything changes when Sasha meets Paul (Félix-Antoine Bénard), a teen boy her own "age" standing on a rooftop, ready to jump. He arouses something deep in her, causing her fangs to appear for the first time, startling both of them. She runs off, horrified, almost embarrassed at how her body is changing. Later, after contemplating her own suicide (by eating human food) she runs into Paul at a local suicide prevention support group.
Paul, it turns out, is just as lost and broken as Sasha: bullied at school, alienated at work, and unable to see any way forward. When Sasha confesses that she can't bring herself to kill, Paul offers himself up. If she needs to do this to survive, and if he wants to die anyway, why not help each other out? It's an achingly sweet premise.
Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person is unexpectedly tender and emotionally raw. It treats the topic of suicide in a darkly comedic, offbeat way that reminds me of Heathers (1988), but it's also painfully sincere. Both Sasha and Paul are so awkward, so bruised by life, that their connection feels fragile and precious. They're two people who have never really been seen by anyone, finally seeing each other.
There's a beautiful scene played out in one long continuous shot, where these two people face the camera and simply listen to Sasha's favorite record. It's a magical few minutes that runs through all the complex shifting emotions the two are feeling. It speaks to romance, fear of death, compassion, desire, uncertainty...all without dialogue, only the brilliant performances by Sara Montpetit and Félix-Antoine Bénard.
Visually, the film is stunning. As you'd expect from a vampire story, everything takes place at night, but the cinematography makes the darkness feel rich and textured rather than bleak. The way the city is shot seems both urban and suburban, making the whole world feel just slightly out of time. The film exists in its own pocket reality - no cell phones, no clear era, just a slightly off-kilter world that could belong to any time or none at all, perfect for a story about timeless creatures.
I also loved the way the film builds its vampire lore. There are rules, but they're not over-explained. If a vampire feeds without finishing the job, the victim turns, and that unfinished bond creates an attachment between them. This is how Sasha's cousin Denise ends up saddled with a clueless slacker she meant to kill, but who now follows her around like a puppy. It's a funny, world-building detail that had me thinking about another of the film's larger themes: what happens when we leave things unfinished, or refuse to fully commit to the roles we're expected to play?
But all of this is secondary to the film's beating heart: Sasha and Paul. I can't stress enough how much I loved these characters, how much I wanted them to find some kind of peace, even if it wasn't the peace they originally set out to find. Their relationship is so delicate, I felt it could play out in several different ways.
The ending doesn't cheat the darkness or the stakes, but it also doesn't leave you in despair. It finds a delicate, clever, and hopeful middle ground, one that feels earned.
I love that feeling when a movie just slips into my bloodstream, like it was made for me. Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person is one of my favorite vampire films ever. It belongs on the same tier as Let the Right One In (2008), Robert Eggers' Nosferatu (2024), and the bombastic, underrated Bliss (2019). Each of those films left a mark on me for how they used horror to tap into something deeply human.
It's not just for horror fans or vampire lovers, but anyone who's ever felt bullied by the world, or anyone who's ever been told they need to toughen up to survive. It's for anyone who's ever stood at the edge of a rooftop (real or metaphorical), or loved someone who has. And maybe most of all, it's for anyone who's ever ached for someone to look at them, see all their weirdness and softness, and say, "I get it."
Vampires, as a monster concept, are endlessly malleable. Besides their cinematic cousins, zombies, there's no other horror subgenre that filmmakers have toyed with and reimagined quite as much. Sure, there are a few basic rules: vampires need blood to survive, and there's usually something that can kill them. But beyond that? It's wide open. Every generation reshapes vampires to fit its anxieties and desires. Some films lean into the sensuality, others the existential dread, others the camp. This film treats vampires almost like a hidden class of people living quietly within society's cracks, similar to What We Do in the Shadows (2014). And it does this with warmth, humor, and a surprising amount of emotion.
At the center of the story is Sasha (Sara Montpetit), a young vampire girl - and by "young" she's actually 68. From the very first scenes, it's clear that Sasha isn't like the rest of her vampire family. Vampires in this world can be born into their condition, the children of vampire parents. Sasha has always needed blood to survive, but her parents have been the ones to provide it. She's never actually killed anyone herself. Instead, she drinks blood with a straw from little bags, like a juice pouch.
Even as a child, Sasha has physical anxiety about the idea of killing. She's compassionate to a fault and her brain is not wired like other vampires. Her parents love her, but they worry something is fundamentally broken in her. By the time she's a teenager, this empathy has become a real problem. Her fangs have never come in, meaning her body physically resists the transformation into a predator. Her parents, frustrated by her reluctance, eventually kick her out, forcing her to live with her stern cousin Denise (Noémie O'Farrell), a much more practical (and bloodthirsty) vampire who refuses to coddle Sasha with hand-delivered blood. If Sasha wants to survive, she has to feed - and for the first time, she'll have to kill.
What makes Sasha's journey so poignant is how deeply human it feels. She's not just wrestling with hunger and survival; she's wrestling with the expectations of her family, tradition, her fear of hurting others, and the terrifying realization that in order to fully become herself, she might have to abandon the very things that make her feel, well human.
Everything changes when Sasha meets Paul (Félix-Antoine Bénard), a teen boy her own "age" standing on a rooftop, ready to jump. He arouses something deep in her, causing her fangs to appear for the first time, startling both of them. She runs off, horrified, almost embarrassed at how her body is changing. Later, after contemplating her own suicide (by eating human food) she runs into Paul at a local suicide prevention support group.
Paul, it turns out, is just as lost and broken as Sasha: bullied at school, alienated at work, and unable to see any way forward. When Sasha confesses that she can't bring herself to kill, Paul offers himself up. If she needs to do this to survive, and if he wants to die anyway, why not help each other out? It's an achingly sweet premise.
Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person is unexpectedly tender and emotionally raw. It treats the topic of suicide in a darkly comedic, offbeat way that reminds me of Heathers (1988), but it's also painfully sincere. Both Sasha and Paul are so awkward, so bruised by life, that their connection feels fragile and precious. They're two people who have never really been seen by anyone, finally seeing each other.
There's a beautiful scene played out in one long continuous shot, where these two people face the camera and simply listen to Sasha's favorite record. It's a magical few minutes that runs through all the complex shifting emotions the two are feeling. It speaks to romance, fear of death, compassion, desire, uncertainty...all without dialogue, only the brilliant performances by Sara Montpetit and Félix-Antoine Bénard.
Visually, the film is stunning. As you'd expect from a vampire story, everything takes place at night, but the cinematography makes the darkness feel rich and textured rather than bleak. The way the city is shot seems both urban and suburban, making the whole world feel just slightly out of time. The film exists in its own pocket reality - no cell phones, no clear era, just a slightly off-kilter world that could belong to any time or none at all, perfect for a story about timeless creatures.
I also loved the way the film builds its vampire lore. There are rules, but they're not over-explained. If a vampire feeds without finishing the job, the victim turns, and that unfinished bond creates an attachment between them. This is how Sasha's cousin Denise ends up saddled with a clueless slacker she meant to kill, but who now follows her around like a puppy. It's a funny, world-building detail that had me thinking about another of the film's larger themes: what happens when we leave things unfinished, or refuse to fully commit to the roles we're expected to play?
But all of this is secondary to the film's beating heart: Sasha and Paul. I can't stress enough how much I loved these characters, how much I wanted them to find some kind of peace, even if it wasn't the peace they originally set out to find. Their relationship is so delicate, I felt it could play out in several different ways.
The ending doesn't cheat the darkness or the stakes, but it also doesn't leave you in despair. It finds a delicate, clever, and hopeful middle ground, one that feels earned.
I love that feeling when a movie just slips into my bloodstream, like it was made for me. Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person is one of my favorite vampire films ever. It belongs on the same tier as Let the Right One In (2008), Robert Eggers' Nosferatu (2024), and the bombastic, underrated Bliss (2019). Each of those films left a mark on me for how they used horror to tap into something deeply human.
It's not just for horror fans or vampire lovers, but anyone who's ever felt bullied by the world, or anyone who's ever been told they need to toughen up to survive. It's for anyone who's ever stood at the edge of a rooftop (real or metaphorical), or loved someone who has. And maybe most of all, it's for anyone who's ever ached for someone to look at them, see all their weirdness and softness, and say, "I get it."