Imagine with me here for a second. You’re a little girl, growing up in Minnesota. Your middle name is Max (I know, right? Like, gee, thanks a lot, parents), and your whole life you’ve been told you’re named after two things: your great grandpa (again, weird, I know), and Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. And then on your eighteenth birthday, you decide you’re going to get your first tattoo. And what do you decide on? A scene from that very same book, of course. Hey, I never said to imagine that you were smart, or anything.

So you have this tattoo, right. And you think it’s pretty cool, or whatever. And then, bam, they announce that they’re making a movie of this book. And, get this, the trailer looks pretty fucking good. All of a sudden, mad bitches are adding Where the Wild Things Are to their favorite books on Facebook. You can’t escape that Arcade Fire song. They start selling Maurice Sendak paraphernalia at Urban.

Wouldn’t you be a little conflicted? I mean, on the one hand, this book is legitimately one of the best books ever. Yeah, that’s right. I said it. Shit is visually arresting, bro. Maurice Sendak is one of the best illustrators of all time (yo, Dr. Seuss, I’m a let you finish but…). And Max is the greatest. The book is genius, and it deserves the exposure.

And then there’s this movie, which reads like an aging hipster’s wet dream. Spike Jonze? Dave Eggers? That twee ass soundtrack? I am not necessarily opposed to all of these elements. I liked Being John Malcovich a lot, for instance. And I love me some weird Bjork videos. Plus, did you know that Spike Jonze directed the Luda video with the giant arms? True fact.

And then there’s Dave Eggers. I will admit to having thoroughly enjoyed A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, despite myself. Shit is so self-referential and pretentious. But he’s kind of funny, I guess. He’s also turning my favity fave book into a novel for young adults. I really don’t think that I approve. I also have to be straight up with you: I hate the Arcade Fire. Hate hate hate them. But so does Wayne Coyne (from the Flaming Lips). So I got that going for me.

So yeah, I’m a little apprehensive. I mean, I’m fairly certain that the movie is going to be adorable and we’re all going to sob through it and walk out with a completely new outlook on life. But part of me would rather it bombed.

Why? Well, mostly because I don’t want to be the girl with the tattoo from that one movie. It sucks when you love something that is relatively obscure (or, you know, meant for babies), and then all of a sudden everyone else does, too. Like when my friend Maggie “discovered” Neutral Milk Hotel in ninth grade. Shit stings. It’s irrational, and more than a little bit petty, but I don’t care. I’ve accepted that, and moved on.

Or, what if someone thinks I got my tattoo BECAUSE of the movie? My poor friends have all heard me angst. I think, besides clowns, that is my number one biggest fear. Because I’m shallow. And kind of a pretentious asshole.

I’m also a little bit annoyed that they’ve turned a story about a little smartass into a tearjerker. Max wasn’t abused or neglected. He chased his dog around the house with a hammer, so his mom sent him to his room. And, get this, she still made him dinner afterward. Yeah, Maurice Sendak signed off on the script. And yeah, it’s a total reworking or whatever, but I reserve the right to have… well, reservations.

And it’s not just this movie. Everywhere you look, things from our collective childhoods are being remade and reworked. Granted, Wild Things is not really our generation’s, exactly, but what about that horrible Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs CGI mess? Or the Ten Things I Hate About You TV show? Is it some kind of postmodern thing that I’m not smart enough to understand?

I am not old enough to be this nostalgic.