All this messy chose me—and I was okay with that. I mean, I had to be. I was a perfectionist good girl with the heart of a raging bitch. Messy was the only way to rock this bun. I was really good at my job, yet stupid old imposter syndrome kicked my ass on the daily. I was scrappy as fuck and more delicate than anyone had the right to be. I was vain as hell yet bristled at being judged on my appearance first, my surgical pedigree second. I swore fluently and often.
