I did not belong in my entitled suburban high school with its BMW-littered parking lot, that much was obvious. Still, I was an incorrigible individualist – my purple pixie cut amongst blonde cheerleader perms, my thrift store ensembles amongst be-branded yuppie threads – my formative years were spent dodging lunch remnants and unwarranted insults. I didn’t care, each flung fistful of Frito’s only resulted in a new color of hair dye and a defiant donning of my vintage hippy sweater.

Come time for school dances, my close friends (made closer by our mutual yuppy revulsion and thrift store devotion) and I whipped out the big guns. Mind you, this was before it was normal to wear costumes to school dances, we were literally the only kids not wearing chiffon or taffeta prom dresses from Wet Seal:

Eve was adorable in a velvet mini dress with a “Homecoming sash” made of fake bullets and silver and black wingtip maryjanes. I wore a lace-up corset, silver tights and heeled brogues and some rather unfortunate hair color.

That was all fine and good, but I’m pretty sure the music stopped when we walked into our Senior Ball after having watched Amadeus one too many times that year:

Notice how our gigantic dresses were too big for the set and its duct tape applied floor… It was a trying adventure to pee in that venue’s microscopic bathroom stalls.

(Scans by my sweet friend, Dawna Gillis-Casey, who is sporting the sole jazzhand in the first photo. Thank you!)