Until the last year or so, I was the poster girl for white protestant guilt. Starting around my 19th birthday I commenced railing against my 18-year perfection trek. I did not yet know my idiosyncracies had a name: neuroses. Eventually I over-corrected for past transgression by trying to look legit. I married. I had a perfect child. I realized, with a little help, I'd bellyflopped into a pool of too much, too soon. The knowledge that my whole life was a sham at that point soon led me to believe that everyone was judging me all the time. The other ballet mothers are looking at my tattoos and tisking because my little boy picks 5:30 - 6:00 to scream his head off every day. I'm doing it all wrong. I don't know how to do it the right way. I'm being surveiled every day, all the time. Divorcing in an attempt to make myself feel truer just made me feel like a complete social abomination. A few years later, I moved to New York. The signs say "No Self-Depricating. We Will Eat Your Head and Fine You $9,000. Thank You for Not Being Such a Pussy." So I quit caring what people think about me, and my true, scandalous colors shone right awn through.