I was one badass preteen.
Bad. Ass.
I had a friend named Lisa who lived down the street. We didn't go to the same school, but we hung out together in the hood. Her house was a fricking pigsty and there were about 15 kids living in the place. I had to hold my nose just to step foot over the threshold. I mean, it smelled like a rotting corpse in there. The beds were all sagging and pee-stained, and the kitchen sink was filled with dishes encrusted with unidentifiable brown matter at all times.
But Lisa was badass like me, so we hung out in the hood.
Suburban preteen badass life is like this...
You wear tight Jordache jeans. If there is a big orange comb sticking out of your back pocket with the word NICE written on it in bubble letters, you are definitely badass.
You ride your bike to the corner where the Parish Hall meets the church parking lot. If you have a ten-speed, turn the handlebars UP to be badass. Ride with no hands. When you get there, you let your bike fall directly to the ground. Using a kickstand is NOT badass.
You sit on the corner and spit. Spitting is very very badass if you are a suburban preteen. Making hocking noises prior to spitting is NOT badass; that's just trashy.
You watch Brian O'Neill and his friends play hockey in the street. Yelling "Hi Brian!" knowing he has no clue who on earth you are is badass. Badass suburban preteen DANGER.
You act like you don't care if he looks your way or waves in a confused fashion. You are a badass suburban preteen, so you can't act like he matters to you.
If you are asked on a date by another badass suburban preteen with a mullet, decline. Tell the mullet boy that he is ugly, he smells, he dresses funny and you wouldn't go out with him if he was the last boy on earth. Then go home and make out with your Shaun Cassidy poster. That is totally badass.
Catholic school girl by day, BADASS SUBURBAN PRETEEN by night. That was me, dude. That was me.