junecleavage

When I was 8-years-old, we had just moved to a very pretentious, very established old-money community in a notable historical town (this after being raised by my non-conformist hippie momma in Oregon prior to her marriage to her prestigious lawyer). I was clearly out of my element unsure as to how to relate to these girls with their perfectly coifed hair and perfectly dressed attitudes. One day, after spending an afternoon with a collective group of the it girls I agreed to be placed in a shopping cart and sent speeding to my doom down a very steep hill near my home. I was terrified but determined at the same time to show them that I was not going to cower to them. It was a mess. The cart spiraled out of control and I was thrown into the middle of the street with the cart slamming on top of me, nearly getting hit by a car that stopped to see if I was okay while the girls all scattered and ran away for fear of getting in trouble.
I actually was okay. I mean I was battered and beat up but I felt fearless. And I whispered a big Fuck You to those girls who were so full of their own insecurities that they couldnt even stick around to face the scene they had created. I spent a lifetime with those girls in that town some of whom called themselves my best friends.
Fools.
To this day they never truly knew me.
And I am still fearless.
I have a tattoo that tells me so.