May 18 is my best friend's birthday. Have I ever told you about my best friend (imagine him in Columbo's voice) ? That was a few years ago. Back then, nobody wanted to admit me to the sixth form except a college on the outskirts of Paris. It was very cold. In summer and winter alike, you could catch flu, angina and pneumonia just because the thick walls were soaked in deadly humidity. But I had no choice. It was either that or work at the local foundry, which didn't care that I wasn't old enough to work. I was the only girl in the class there, before discovering that I was also the only girl in the school. The school had become coeducational at the start of the school year, but no parent in their right mind, apart from mine, had seen fit to enrol their daughter in a place that seemed to have come straight out of a John Carpenter universe. From the very first recess, the mood was set. It was me in front of them, staring at me.

The first assault came the day after school started. A squadron of degenerates came up to me and mimed obscene, mocking gestures. This went on for 6 months. After that, they began to put words into my mouth and belittle me. I wasn't the only one to suffer the mockery of these morons. There was another one too, smaller than average, who spent his time, alone, like me. They were always on him, humiliating him by spitting in his face or confiscating his belongings so that he could be punished. If the terrorists were terrorizing, there was no way the victim was going to be victimized. I wasn't going to be counted on to play the safe house. My father hadn't brought me up to be such a coward, so the day that the big, fat, stalkerish, slob came a little too close, spouting his filthy crap, I grabbed him by the end of his suspenders and pulled on them to punch him in the face and break his incisor.

I hate violence, but I hate injustice even more. They call me the Martina Luther Queen of Beaurepaire Street. And yet, he was in dire need of having his brainless predator's caquet knocked down. And God knows there are plenty of them in the male ranks. This feat of strength had enabled me to spread my albatross wings and take a few swipes at the mufti. Since the little kingpin with the little red armpits had been beaten up by a girl, he had lost some of his superbness and influence. As a result, everyone lived and breathed more happily and comfortably. It was in the midst of all this new-found jubilation that I made friends with the other bully in the establishment. His name was Carlos and he had arrived in France because his parents had fled Salazar. His father was a painter and his mother a Fado singer. From that moment on, we became inseparable and fought great battles together. Like Solferino, for example. There isn't a birthday that we don't spend together, because it was on May 18th, her birthday, that I decided to sound the charge against this falsely burnt-out patriarchy. I set you on fire.

Here's something to make your mako mermaid curves ripple :