By this point, dearest reader, you may be asking yourself: Why is this woman such a bitch? Let me take two to three minutes out of my day to answer that question.
Well, it started out, down a dirty road… No wait, that’s a Tom Petty song. Anyway, let’s go back to childhood, as I’ve learned all things fucked up can be directly traced back to those tender developmental years. I did indeed grow up on the edge of a dirt road, on a little farm, and though my mother balks at the word, I would say that yes, probably, the term White Trash could be applied. But, I mean, you know educated white trash—we read books and shit.
Anyway, we were poors—like government cheese was no stranger and it was the Farm Crisis and everything that Ronald Reagan seemed to do was like a donkey punch to us. So, anyway, being poors, I got made fun of—a lot. My sister was way older than me, so in the early ’80s when all the other little kids got to rock Lees and Wranglers, I was stuck wearing her striped, polyester, hand-me-down pants from the ’70s. I looked like one of those Czech brothers from Steve Martin/Dan Akroyd SNL skits. And the kids on the bus were fucking mean little bastards about it.
So, anyway, school was a drag, and I got beat up a lot at home. Aforementioned big sis? She was probably one of my biggest tormentors—we’d go swimming and she’d tackle me and hold my head not only underwater but make sure to shove my face in the sand for good measure.
Also, she blackmailed me to get on our pony, Princess, then fell on me, breaking my arm, which has manifested into a lifelong fear of horses for me.
Then junior high and high school—I guess I was the awkward, smart girl—which didn’t do me any favors either. Just picture a John Hughes dance going on and on and on, and this pretty much sums up my experience. It Sixteen Candles—I wasn’t a total geek and still managed to get some, just wasn’t the girl with the gazongas in the shower who nailed the Jake Ryans.
By the time I got my license to drive, I quit hanging out with my fellow high-schoolers and went a few towns over to hang out with the kids who ran drugs. The booze was free, they had lots of motorcycles/snowmobiles to play with and danger-through-association is a better way to spend time at 16 than renting Weekend at Bernie’s and ordering pizza, which is pretty much what other kids my age were doing. But when you find yourself carrying a tire iron into a party to avoid getting beat up? Well, yeah, you’ve lost a little innocence. So, this has all contributed to a nice little adult fascination with all things strange and bad and dangerous, which blossomed into a wonderful little writing career where I live out my fantasies vicariously through the lives of those more fucked-up than me.
But, hey, at least I’m not stupid.