It backfired, you know. My bit about making myself over into the very thing that everyone insisted I already was: The Pariah. With The Smiths wailing in the background (I always sang the line as "fourteen, clumsy and shy, that's the story of my life," you know.), I became someone else. In the month following my fourteenth birthday, I went from pink lipgloss and bobbie socks to black eyeliner and boots called Docs. I dyed my hair, dyed my clothes, ripped my stockings, and starved myself to that pseudo-smack-junkie skinniness that wouldn't be popular for another decade.

Yet, it backfired. The uglier I made myself, the more they liked me. From simply strange to seductively mysterious in a matter of weeks. The wilder I got, the more they cheered. The odder my tastes, the more they asked where I shopped. The more expansive and exaggerated I made my differences appear, the more they tried to be just like me.

_{(I never asked for this. I was just trying to be what you told me to be.)}

And the boys...Oh, the boys. Prior to my fourteenth birthday, I'd never been on a date, never been kissed, never held hands. The boys I'd liked were unreachable, unattainable, hated me. Suddenly, with my face coated in alabaster pancake makeup, my body wrapped in black nylon and lace, they lead me into clubs, saved me seats on the bus, whispered in my ear backstage in Drama.

_{(Well, maybe I wanted this. I can live with a byproduct or two.)}

But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. What I wanted to say was simply this: I have slept with too many men. I never thought I'd come to such a conclusion, yet here I am. The number (no, I'll not share it) may seem like small beans to some, a ghastly figure to others. Doesn't matter much what you might think; I say it's too many for me.

Nevertheless, there I was Friday afternoon, contemplating another. Alright, not truly contemplating no; I am a grouchy old married bitch, you're right. But I thought about it. I watched his hands drift through the air as he spoke. Studied the way his mouth formed the words. Admired the blue of his eyes, the gold of his hair.

My penance? Manly, left to his own devices whilst I was out with my friends, read my on-line diary. Yes, the very one you're reading now. He allowed his ill feelings to fester, though, deciding not to approach me about it til Saturday morning. At some point during our mostly one-sided argument, I located my testicles and declared that he would not read it ever again, that he hadn't been invited, and wouldn't be in the foreseeable future. I do believe I'll leave him for good should he fail to honour my wishes on this.

To be unloved and lonely, or to be known and persecuted... Tough choice. Sometimes, I long for the obscurity of my pre-adolescence.