The year is, oh, around 2002 or so. I’m watching, as usual, to see what the too-cool-to-talk-to-me middle school socialites put on to go back to class after gym. One of them pulls on a T-shirt with text on it. 50% Angel. 50% Devil. I’m too entranced to care if my prolonged stare at the words on her chest looks inappropriate. I want that shirt.
It encapsulated everything I wasn’t: sexy (because angels, of course, meant Victoria’s Secret, and Victoria’s Secret meant sexy) yet rebellious — the kind of girl who would sneak out the window to see her boyfriend at night. The kind of girl who would have a boyfriend in the first place! And so my search for the perfect graphic tee began. I was convinced that if I could just find a shirt that told the world what kind of girl I wanted to be, I would become that girl.