I am the Bad Girl Next Door.
My hair is not a color found in nature. I have had more metal pierced through my skin than some battle cruisers. My tattoos don’t feature flowers, pixies or iconography of Jesus Christ. My wardrobe features very few trendy pieces; I have never owned a pair of leggings or hot pants. My lingerie is not color-coordinated. My make-up is not caked on to hide my natural complexion, alter my imperfect features or disguise my ethnicity. I refuse to stand in the mirror calculating how far from the Golden Ratio my facial features fall and ruminating on the types of plastic surgery that would correct their imbalance. I danced barefoot at my prom.
I don’t make polite conversation well. I have no problem disagreeing with the political ideologies of others. I make bad jokes and still think I’m funny. I can honestly say I don’t know how to flirt. I don’t care if you have money and I certainly plan to spend my own and not yours anyway. On occasion, I pay. I speak up when you use racial slurs, ethnic puns or make no-taste fat jokes. I do not laugh off any suggestion that I do any certain thing or act any certain because “I am a woman”. I am the first to answer questions in class. I do not back down when I know I’m right. I listen because I want to, not because I’m placating you to boost your ego.
Cosmo is not my bible; in fact, I don’t read anything featuring the airbrushed, wind-blown tanorexic female “elite” of the moment. I could understand how all housewives might feel “desperate”. I aspire to a career and to love, simultaneously. I want to examine the issue of reproduction rather than just do it because it’s expected. I have high expectations of myself and those around me. I don’t threaten other girls for talking to my boyfriend. I am fiercely loyal. I don’t need you to show me off but I do like that you take pride in knowing me. I cuddle- sometimes. Of course I like to be chased, but I haven’t set up an obstacle course for you to jump through. I love love.
You might call me the “Bad Girl” next door.
I don’t pre-plan the ending of first dates. I have never had aspirations of becoming an underwear model. I have spent zero time in tanning beds. My self-worth does not revolve around my popularity. I don’t wait three days to call. I can spend hours on the phone talking about nothing without feeling self-conscious. I like spending time with myself- alone. I go to movies by myself so that I can lose myself in the story; I go with friends so that we can gossip about the cute love scenes afterwards.
Metallica is on my playlist. So is N*Sync. I couldn’t tell you what songs are currently popular on the radio or on music television. I refuse to believe that the most exciting moment of my life is when my father walks me down the aisle. I also don’t need my father to “give me away”. I am not a burden because of my genitalia. I don’t wear t-shirts advertising myself as the next “Mrs.” anybody. I am not a commodity. You cannot sell me something just because it’s pink. I don’t have to fake being nice and I don’t feel the need to apologize every time I’m not. Sometimes, I stay out past my bedtime and sometimes I don’t stay out at all. I am not waiting for you to call.
I really like to eat and will order a full meal when I go out to dinner. I order pizza for myself. I haven’t “learned to like” beer so men will find me more accessible. In fact, I don’t find my courage in the bottom of a cold keg. I’m not going to pretend to have your interests. I have my own. I don’t spend my days lamenting the fact I was born without a penis or wondering what I would do with one if I was. I find sex enjoyable as well. I am not a tease. Please, go out with your friends and let me do the same! I am building a life, not waiting until someone comes along and invites me into theirs. No, I won’t flash you my breasts.
You probably think I’m “cool” although I’m fairly sure that term only refers to those people who have no reservations about being themselves- quirks and all. You quietly envy my ballsiness, brazenness and gusto. You covet my opinions and my pastimes. You note my awkwardness, my genuine confusion, and my constant introspection. You loathe the way I don’t play your games.
I am found in every neighborhood. I am not exotic and mysterious and long-legged and foreign. I do not self-identify as any as “Goth” or “emo” or “punk” or “prep”. I cry when I get my heart broken, have no magic fix for rejection and still giggle when I’m in love. I get dirty. I play to my strengths and accept those limitations I cannot correct. I am the female in front of you in the grocery line, changing my tire on the side of the road, the one sitting- lost in the stacks- of the library, the one you over look because you can’t immediately place me.
I am fine being a walking contradiction. I don’t consider myself a hypocrite as I am taking time to find, and like, myself. And, though I am young, I hate the connotations that come with calling me “a girl”. In fact, I hate the connotations that come with almost every gendered-notion you have about me. I don’t think of myself as good and pure nor as sexy and bad. I’m not here to change your life nor to plan it. I haven’t been taught to settle. I have my own dreams, my own ideas and my own voice. I am impressive and my character cannot be compromised.
But, most of all, I’m a bad “girl” because I reject the notion that girls can only be one of two things: good or bad. I don’t have to be anything for you to try to understand me. I am not following the model of any female before me. I refuse to let you verbally-squeeze me into a predefined mold. I just am and I prefer it that way.
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