I have become that which I most fear...I'm BATMAN!

Back when I was about eight years old, I used to draw these little sketches of what I called "Frilly girls." These frilly girls would always be depicted meeting their ends in various horrible ways--machete, velociraptor, alien attack. It was all very kindergarten-Edward-Gorey, but with waayyyy less artistic potential. In other words, I was a weirdly sadistic little bastard, and it's no wonder that Rachel maintains that I will give birth to, raise, and ultimately be murdered by a serial killer. "Welcome home, son! Oh, that's my aorta."

My point is that I never wanted to be That Girl. I spent a hefty portion of my life campaigning against That Girl. I subjected That Girl to fire, water, earth...like those popes in that second Dan Brown novel that was better than the first, but the female character was exactly the same because Dan Brown doesn't know how to write women...THAT'S a post for another time.

That Girl was what I knew I never would become. That little eight-year-old Caitlin was going to remain in leggings and t-shirts forever (curiously enough, those are now in style. I was obviously ahead of the curve), reading Young Adult fantasy novels and writing little weird sci-fi stories about ghosts that died from the influenza back in 1918--although I can attribute that last one to my dad, who was writing a story about flu-ghosts at the same time. I obviously wanted a piece of that juicy action. Eight-year-old Caitlin was less than subtle about how she got her ideas.

So here I am, eleven years later. I still have some of the same views that made little-me sketch those somewhat disturbing things in that flowery notebook (I did not appreciate irony at that age). For example, I do not appreciate help that is offered without my asking for it. If you do something like offer me a hand to help me climb a rock, you will probably get your head bitten off. Boris knows what I'm talking about. I also have very little patience for stupidity, which was always a key trait among the Frilly Girls (I mean, seriously. Who doesn't know how to escape a velociraptor attack in this day and age?)

But...I don't know. I also give a lot of thought to how I dress and how I look, which at age eight, I never thought would be the case. The biggest failing to my eight-year-old self, though, is in the feelings department. I never, not in a million years, thought I would be one for pining. And, hypocritically enough, I still have no patience for pining in others.

But damn, can I pine! I am an Olympic-level piner. I could pine all day if it didn't make me so miserable, and if I didn't have some wonderful friends to get my mind off things. It's not even for the same guy! I'm a fickle piner, a horrible, fickle piner. And do you know what? Fuck that. It's not productive, and it makes me kind of miserable, but I can't seem to stop.

I have become that which I most fear. Eight-year-old Caitlin, that judgmental little bitch, would be so ashamed.