Feb. 24th, 2015
“Slut!” they chanted.
“Use a mirror the next time you curl your hair!”
“Did you even turn the lights on in your bathroom this morning?”
And that commences the beginning of a life-ruining sequence of events,
in which one snooty pre-teen passes a ‘secret’ onto the next bratty pre-teen
and that bratty pre-teen passes it along to another arrogant pre-teen who passes it down (a warped rendition of what once was, of course) to another [insert negative adjective or derogatory noun here] pre-teen to another [insert negative adjective or derogatory noun here] pre-teen and… you get the point.
When I was in the second grade, I thought I liked a boy named Josh.
I told my best friend that, and, promptly, she told her other best friend, and so on.
Eventually, it got warped to the point where people thought that Josh liked me.
Needless to say, I heard about that one. And got excited over nothing.
When I was in the sixth grade, I started wearing makeup. Too much of it, of course.
And, to make matters worse, my overly-makeup’d appearance (blue eyeshadow, heavy eyeliner, red or bright pink lipstick, dark brows) made someone along the way assume I was a prostitute.
And, courtesy of snooty and bratty and so on preteens everywhere, I was being called a whore left and right.
Eventually, someone decided they’d call me a bombshell as if it was an equivalent to skank.
I got home that day, cried, cried, cried some more, and then remembered I didn’t actually know what a bombshell was.
Twenty minutes and about four awkward google searches later, I realized what a bombshell I truly am.