My relationship with Beyoncé began when I was five and first heard those three delicious guitar licks at the beginning of “Say My Name.” Since then it developed into pathetic attempts at singing “1+1” to karaoke instrumentals on YouTube, following the Beyoncé tag religiously on Tumblr, and watching her 90-minute Glastonbury performance at one in the morning. Over these past 13 years, our courtship—OK, my one-way obsession—has only grown fiercer. That’s not to say I don’t question my devotion. Sometimes I wonder: am I the only one who cares about us, Bey?
