I found some well-priced steel-toe combat boots that I liked to wear paired with a short teal and white floral print rayon mini skirt. Because nothing says "mean" like combat boots and rayon. I would iron all the wrinkles out of my pretty skirt, lace up my knee-high black (tough) boots and go for a walk around the neighborhood. Sometimes I packed my butterfly knife that I found somewhere one time.
(Criminal disposal maybe?)(Which of course made me feel even more indestructible and above the law.)
And then there were times I packed my brass knuckles.
I was tough. And edgy.
Everything about me said, "Do not mess with this girl. She will cut you."
Except for the floral rayon.
One day, this
I was put in my place. Effective immediately.
I turned to make my walk of shame back home, hot tears rolling down my face, my heart pounding in my chest and throat, telling myself lies, like, if I had had my brass knuckles, she wouldn'tna handled me like that. I'da taken her down.
I think the case had already been solved though, who the real gangsta was.
I got in front of my house(finally). But not forgetting about my hard thuggish image, with a final jolt of gall, I turned back to where she was still standing (and laughing)(at the far end of the street) and I screamed some profanity and called her some classy names and then I turned and ran into my house.
Because I was bad.
**Edited to add: After reading this again, it sounds as though I was your regular run-of-the-mill bully. This was absolutely not the case. This whole story took place on weekend visitation at my moms - hence, not my hometown - AND WAS AN ISOLATED INCIDENT! I tried to "be somebody else" over there. Or at least give it a valiant effort. Truth is, I was not hard at all. (As evidenced here.) I was just really into this dude that was a straight thug and all I did was DRESS THE PART. The end. I was only trying to be what I thought he wanted. Inside, and outside evidently, I was just a big softie. And I prefer me like that.