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You, remind me of the babe…. What babe?!

The Babe with the power. What power?!
Power of Voodoo. Who do?
You do.
Do what?!
Remind me of the babe.

I remember first watching this movie and noticing that David Bowie was packing something extra than to what I knew girls had.
This was the start of my fascination with the male species.

I mean, why did they have an outtie bottom and why did we girls have an innie?

And why, oh why were boys always more fun to play with than girls?
Don’t get me wrong, I had my fair share of Barbies. Most had custom hair cuts, a few Mohawks, skin heads. I even magic marker-ed in some tattoos.

My Barbies were bitchin as fuck!

But I always found the games that the boys played to be way more adventurous. Like my neighbours were always trying to exclude me from their “boys only club“, until I promised I would gain entry by some form of initiation and of course, them being Dumb and Dumber came up with a rather risky venture.

I had to take a tyre that we had around the house, roll it up the hill by the main road and leave it go upon their command, whenever that was.

An old Toyota starlet comes humming up the road, I stand at the top of this huge hill. Well huge to a 6 year old. Butterflies flittered in my tummy and I felt the flip of a wave of acid, churn and bubble.
“Now, Do it Now!!!”
Almost instinctively I rolled the tyre, to give it a good momentum in hopes it would be to the other side of the road before the car made it.

All my hopes were crashed when I heard the screech of the Toyotas brakes as the car had to hault as my vigilante tyre bounced across the road like a roundy rubber gymnast, effortlessly vaulting into the ditch, at the farther side of the road. At least it didn’t hit the car I told myself, no harm had really been done. Heart thudding, adrenaline pumping, the boys and I get going. Running as fast as we could through the higher growth at the top of the hill. Nettles burned the flesh of my bare legs, briars scraped at my shorts, a temporary discomfort until we cleared the ditch. Having safely gotten to the other side, we sat there panting. Cheeks reddened by the summer sun that had shone down on our mischievous trio. Our faces were flushed with panic, excitement, fear.

Then they looked at me, with an odd acceptance. No words were said, I knew I was in. An allegiance amongst Tyre Terrorists.

This mentality followed me to recent years. Not that I’d do anything to fit in but I knew for me to be seen differently through a boys eyes, I had to project something they didn’t expect. This façade didn’t last long, soon it became apart of who I was.

I am too far gone to ever be a lady. I don’t mind if I get some mud on my jeans, I always have a scrape or bruise somewhere. I sink Heineken better than most men I know and I’m pretty strong.
I brought the way I’m treated by boys, on myself. They say things to me, thinking I can take it and I do. Outwardly. If they say I’ve gotten chubby, I’ll laugh it off. They tell me things about their sex-ploits that they daren’t tell another female. I am pretty much always the friend, but if they’re super drunk I’m good for a grope apparently. I laugh that off too.

Little do they know, spiders terrify me. Aside from my Rebel song obsession, all my favorite artists are females that sing about broken hearts and insecurities. I love the Ellen Show. I cried watching the Color Purple and I tell each of my pets I love them every night before bed. I even kiss Ozzies belly.
(Continued in Comments, you know the drill)