The story of a Geek Girl: Origins

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The story of a Geek Girl keeps rolling. Several days ago, I decided to join a writing prompt and talk about my Geeky origins. The exercise proved to be difficult and challenging for me. Why is it so hard to talk about my own life? After giving much, though, I found out that it’s me who finds it mundane. So far, all those who have asked about my years living in Japan, my years at Uni or about me being a kid, have been keen in asking more since they found it fascinating. The problem is: I don’t find it extraordinary at all. Why? Because I consider that anyone can do the same stuff I did.

Despite considering my life ordinary, I decided to follow up with the exercise of talking about me. And even if I find it difficult, have to re-write the posts a hundred times till I think they might be readable, I’m here to tell you the Story of a Geek Girl.

It all started on a sunny April 21st. My Mother was about to eat her dessert when something happened: the river of life broke loose at seven months of waiting for the baby. What can be worse than being deprived of a gorgeous chocolate ice-cream? Knowing that in some hours a melon-sized head would be popping out from down there. Not a funny prospect. Was it my fault? Not really. Blame Nature, not me.

Spain during the eighties was a funny place: everyone was excited doing things that had been prohibited during years because of a dictatorship. Now, you could have sex and not feel guilty, have porn tapes at home without being paranoid, and speak your mind without fearing ending up in jail. At that time technology wasn’t like now, and so, knowing if your baby is going to be a girl, a boy or a triceratops was science fiction. The maximum a doctor would tell you is “it has a heart, and it makes noises, it must be alive then.” So, imagine the fear when you know that you’re going to poo a melon at seven months of pregnancy instead of the average nine. “Is it going to be a Batman? A melon from outer space? Will it resemble my Mother-in-Law?”

Loki must have been my muse, since what happened was pretty weird. Instead of one bag inside my Mom’s huge belly, there were two. One bag was containing yours truly at the far end of her belly. It looks like I was too comfy as to bother much about my neighbor bag with… well… whatever was there. So, the first bag broke the waters loose. And so, everyone prepared to welcome the melon.

And so they waited.

But there was no melon.

You can imagine the doctors freaking out about the prospect of having a ghost baby in there and telling the Mother to ask for the Ghostbusters instead of a Priest. “I swear I heard it had a heart beating!”

Now imagine the doctor finding out the second bag.

Now imagine a huge intrusive hand breaking your home. Because let me tell you: that second bag, was my home. And no one had the right to break it and evict me! Because that’s what happened: they evicted me from my comfy home at seven months.

Congrats! It’s a full formed baby girl! Not a ghost. No need for Ghostbusters!

Imagine the crying that followed the eviction. My Mom finally pooped a melon-sized head after all. And there I was: evicted, forced into this world before my time. No wonder I was pissed.

The funny thing is that I didn’t need an incubator. Babies that say “hello world” at seven months usually end up in one. But I had everything: hair, eyes, nose; I ate by myself. And I pooped a lot of smelly presents for the nurses. So, it looked like I was a very healthy evicted baby.

Obviously, my parents were thrilled! It’s not a triceratops! She’s gorgeous! So, they brought me home and put me into a cradle my Dad had been working on since they were notified that they would have a baby. You know cradles, they’re spooky places, like little jails with lots of thick bars to prevent you exploring the world.

So you evict me from home, and now you want me to spend my days in jail? No way!

My days in the cradle were two and a half. During that time I attempted to escape in different fashions, including stuffing my head between the bars and attempting suicide in the process.

Not to mention, my parents were horrified. It’s official: she’s Loki.

And so, they decided to place me in the middle of a bed. What happened next? Nothing. I was happy and pleased to stare at things from my throne of pillows.

Then they tried to put me in the cradle again. So, I attempted to escape through the bars again.

And so, they let me be in the bed and open spaces with blankets. No bars, no closed environments, or yours truly would attempt flashy escapes and fashionable ways to get her neck squished.

And just like that, my parents realized that they were dealing with a very persistent being who didn’t like at all other people tell her what to do.

There’s no returns policy for pooing melons and dealing with them. It’s a one-way-ticket to insanity.

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About pepi

A Geek Girl interested in Geek Anthropology, comic books, books, Superheroes and discovering all about pop culture.

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