As I sat in McCoy's Tuesday night over ginger shandys, listening to a New Zealander call me "so mysterious" in her cute little accent, I thought back to when I was just a dumb kid dreaming of some magical transformation that would one day change me so completely, I would become a mystery to everyone who'd known me.
Back then, my world was very small, consisting as it did of the few families who went to Eagle Heights or its school and my family. My five siblings and I were known in that circle collectively as "the Evanses," separately we were "an Evans," because no one could keep our names straight. Everytime someone called me that I'd get so pissed off, feeling like they were completely erasing my personality and identity - it was bad enough that Mom could never remember who was who between us.
So my fantasy was simple: someday I would come back home and no one would know who I was. I'd be so transformed, so fabulous that no one would take me for a kid no one could remember. Meanwhile, life went along and shit happened and I changed and suddenly I'm this woman that other women are calling "mysterious" and I'm thinking maybe I got my wish.
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Sex and Fashion
Insanity of Christianity: The Eagle Heights Example
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