I am my own person. I do not conform to a single idea of what it means to be a human. People may try to put me in boxes, but I break them down screaming, “Not today!” Nothing can define me. Nothing except this 10 inch “Bad Bitch” tattoo on my arm.
It’s easy to make assumptions when you look at someone. What do you see when you look at me? Perhaps a young lady, trying to figure out where she belongs in this crazy world. Maybe a daughter, working to prove to her parents that that $100,000 college education was worth it. Or even a barista who makes uncomfortably intense eye contact.
Well, the truth is I’m all of these things and more, a mixture of every emotion you’ve ever felt, a cornucopia of every personality trait on this mysterious planet. I am beyond description, besides, of course, for “bad bitch,” as designated by this large tattoo on my left shoulder.
Most humans are comforted by categories. It’s confusing to know someone like me, a true free spirit, who moves in and out of identities, completely open to a variety of experiences.
I’m like a fleshy sieve, collecting everything that comes my way, letting the negative stream out and keeping the positives within me. My soul can’t be tampered down by a single word or appellation, it’s ever-changing. One thing will never change, though, and that’s the incontrovertible fact that I’m a bad bitch through and through.
Please know: if you come around and start stereotyping me, I will say, get out of here! In fact, I would fight any man who attempts to do so. One round-house kick to the head and he will get the message loud and clear: the only person who can tell me who I am is me.
As they say, labels are for soup cans and the massive black “Bad Bitch” tattoo which I got in Florida last spring break by accident and absolutely do not regret even a little bit.
