It happened, potentially, because her parents didn’t pay attention to all of the Black Sabbath she had been listening to (e.g. the power of terror will reign / there is no mercy in pleading) as they had written it off as a bit of a phase, as, all things revolving around her, were wont to be labeled. Her mood swings were not as violent as those back in their day after that lavacious Sid Vicious started with that Anarchy in the UK business—“or, wait, no, darling, which was it? The ‘Pistols or the Clash, I can never keep them straight?”—“How can you not keep the two straight Louvernia, they’re completely different, honestly, we saw the Sex Pistols on one of our dates don’t you remember?”—and it continues on like this with her parents, decidedly reliving their glory days before this glorious little ass ache came around, ignore the issue at hand because no, their daughter isn’t one of those Punk Rockers, though she wears the tights and that awful charity shop vest with the patches and oh, how they laugh over the time she pierced her own tongue with the safety pin and they had to go to the hospital at fifteen to three in the morning that one night, as her tongue had swelled up so much with infection she could hardly speak.
Sometimes, she just gets so angry. Enough so that she, of course, resolves to draw pictures of her teachers decapitated in her various diaries that never live past the first five pages, and are then pushed as far under her bed as they can go with the unused tampons and cans of Coca Cola.
Perhaps if her parents had found these they might have been more concerned, but the signs taped to her door reading: “iminent death awaits those who enter this room without permission” kept them at bay. And they never really came in any way unless she was blasting that, “damn fascist music,” too loudly. Again, one of her phases, but she wasn’t sure what constituted as fascist music. Was it the stuff by people from actual fascist countries, or was it the stuff that was just loud and almost too Rock and Roll for her Rock and Roll parents (r.i.p Rock and Roll parents c. September 1980).
She was not the kind to put an Electric Banana rinse in her hair or tell her parents to fuck off. She made mostly A’s and had a generally boring life accompanied by a boyfriend who was almost always too nervous to even try to stick his tongue down her throat, let alone anywhere else.
It was just, boring. Pigtails and school kilts boring. Black framed glasses boring. Until the day she’s sitting on the bus thinking about just how much she hates herself and everyone but especially that guy who keeps incessently snapping his pen while doing the crossword, and she sees this guy who is not incessently snapping his pen, but looking very My Own Private Idaho and making her heart jump out of its seat so it could crawl up her throat and out onto her lap.
