The plastic label seals around my head, every breath of the word drawing it in tighter and tighter until it molds to my skin, where it can strangle me without anything seeming amiss.
In the mirror, I’m a barely recognizable 98 pounds — “Olsen-twin chic” as I call it. But there’s nothing chic about this at all. I’ve been self-destructive, chasing pretenses of glamour — and for what? I’m disgusted with myself.
My Myspace page becomes a giant collage depicting my undeniable love for Dana and Tegan and Sara. I’m not hiding anything. In fact, I think I’m making it pretty impossible for anyone who knows me to say, “that girl MUST be straight.”
My dad tells me to get the Kingsford lighter fluid which they use to marinate the CDs and tapes. Then they ask if I have anything to say. I just stand there silently. Then, with a drop of a match, our music is transformed into melted notes.
I’m not Arya. I’m Sansa. Many GRRM readers hate her; she’s stupid and naive. She is used as a pawn by everyone. But I understand and love Sansa deeply, because her story is my own.
Without even intending it, I start to walk away from my religion. It is not a pleasant journey. I feel alone. I can’t tell anyone because everyone I know believes in God. I am an outcast. I am an X-Man.
Even in the world of don’t-offend parenting, I got as far as I did because I tell the fucking truth. I might have the only parenting book to regularly drop the f-bomb. My entire brand is built on being not-blend-in-able.
Tell your story.