Memories of a Tomboy

When I was eight, a friend from school invited me to a Halloween party. I was psyched. Brazil is known for Carnival, football and women, but definitely NOT Halloween parties, which is stupid if you ask me. Halloween is like Carnival with candy.  I mean, seriously, Brazil, get a grip.


Anyway, I was running around and screaming like a crazy person, because that girl was quite popular and I was a total nerd. Please keep in mind those were the old days, when being a nerd was equal to having leprosy. 

But soon I started freaking out. What costume should I choose?

Now, I was a really weird kid. You know how most girls played with Barbies and My Little Ponies? I had Mutant Ninja Turtles’ action figures (Leonardo and Michelangelo actually), and I kindda had a crush on Leonardo. That’s how weird I was: I bordered on awkwardness.

On a side note, I think my childhood must have been a super fun experience for my Mom.

Anyway. While I dreamed of being Batman and defending Gotham city from the scum that infested it, other girls prepared for motherhood with dolls that pooped and peed, which is so insane that I can’t even. I mean, how screwed-up is that?

At some point in time, some dumb-ass sitting in a high chair thought that, “Girls need to be prepared for their one and only role in our society: being mothers. And mothers looooooove cleaning poop, right? Of course they do.”

You, sir, are an asshole.fartdoll6
But I digress.

So, I told Mom what I wanted for a costume.

“What about Poison Ivy?” she asked. “You could go as Poison Ivy.”

I shook my head, arms crossed.

“Okay, I know: Batgirl.” Mom pushed. “She’s so pretty, sweetheart.”

Head shake again.

“How about Catwoman? She’s powerful and strong.”

“Moooom,” I whined.

Mom sighed, either in annoyance or exasperation, maybe both. “Fine.”


On that Halloween evening, I rang the doorbell. When the popular girl’s Mom opened the door, she came across a figure. A symbol. A myth.

She bent over her knees and asked, “Oh, and what are you supposed to be, dear?”

I spread my bat wings wide and said in a low voice, “Lady, I’m your worst nightmare.”

I never returned to that house again. It might have been the fact that I propped myself on a table at the corner of the room and watched everyone from the shadows.

Joke’s on them because no criminal dared defy THE BATMAN that night.


C.S. Wilde writes about fantastical worlds, love stories larger than life and epic battles. She also, quite obviously, sucks at writing an author bio. She finds it awkward that she must write this in the third person, and hopes you won’t notice.

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Posted in Writing
7 comments on “Memories of a Tomboy
  1. djmorand says:

    YES! Bwahahaha. You are the kind of girl I invited to my birthday because of things like this. haha. Nerds rock, even us REAL nerds from the 80s.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Haha, fantastic! At least the party was safe from any colorful criminals or supervillains that may have menaced it.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. annabowling says:

    Points for sticking to your guns and committing to the whole deal. Love this story.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Zak Zakaryas says:

    Now that’s what I call epic.

    Liked by 1 person

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