I was grown in a shallow dish with sides low enough that I could see photos of my baby girl self on every wall. I had gold studs in my tiny ears, bright white teeth that hadn’t fallen out yet. My dresses featured a range of colors that didn’t work with my coloring: pale pink, white, crushed black velvet with white lace. If that’s not enough proof of the late 1980s, there’s also a photo with a Little Mermaid costume, teal sequins on chubby teal fishtail. I was linda! and everything que linda! implied: small, delicate, quiet, happy, sweet, friendly, pretty, perfect.
A shallow little attention whore grows up and learns to fall in love with popular white faces, the sounds of words, the tempo of bubblegum pop, the striking layout of another girl’s personal site.
Her name was in the address bar, a new domain extension and damn, that layout. Her blog posts lived in white rounded rectangles, the white rectangles sitting in an ocean of teal that seemed like a new color. How could teal be new? How could a color clutch at my throat and make me want so much? How could I have her crisp lines and curves, her brightness, that shock of pink in her headers? How could I have her?