DEMON DAUGHTER

I've mentioned before that, as a teen, I was a colossal bitch. It's likely you read that and chuckled, Oh, me too, Meg! Gosh, what I put my parents through . . . Teenagers can be so awful.

No, really. Raising me was like raising Satan.

No, I didn't sex around. Wasn't a slut. Didn't even smooch a fella until I fell upon the ripe old age of 16. No, I didn't pierce any strange bits. I waited until I was 18 to add an third hole to my right lobe. No, I didn't get boozy. I've never tasted alcohol. I didn't run away from home. Didn't steal. Didn't get expelled or suspended from school. Got acceptable grates. Don't have a tattoo. Never smoked anything. Never diddled with street or prescription drugs.

But I had a mouth on me like you wouldn't believe.

No, it wasn't even the kind of mouth that spews naught but curse words. It was the filthy, hateful, hurtful kind of mouth that goes without a governor, doesn't require refueling, and runs right for the jugular.

And my poor madre was the tongue's most common target of choice.

When rearing the five that came after me, Mom dealt with stereotypical mouthy teens. The others could be nasty, resistant, and sassy, but when battling them she'd think, Bring it on. I've been trained by the best.

Though she's tough and ostensibly unbreakable, I remember making my mom cry one Christmas Day. Her eldest daughter: a world-class shrew.

Have I reformed?

Yes.

And no. I no longer treat everyone like they're a bug to be verbally squished; but I haven't forgotten how. It's still the most violent and effective weapon in my arsenal.

Years ago, my trap housed a tongue quite smooth and symmetrical. No more. I've ground that part into unrecognizable matter through years of biting the heck out of it. The excoriating things I've wanted to spew but have withheld could fill the Library of Congress. Though I'm a woman of error, sin, and do-overs, what will seat me squarely in Hell are the deliciously filthy fantasies I have about using my vicious tongue to inflict irreversible emotional trauma on those I loathe.

Do I sometimes slip and make souls bleed? Absolutely. But with less and less frequency. And I do my best to avoid harming my family; they've had enough. However, attack that family of mine or someone I love (it's a short list) and if the offense is great enough there's a good chance I'll employ my ability to make you cry and get a toe-tingling pleasure out of watching you suffer. I'll grind until I get to your spot most tender and slash at it with my adept tongue until you collapse into a sobbing mass.

I scan bumper stickers and license plate holders that say things like, You call me a bitch like it's a bad thing, and think, You have no idea. I am absolutely positive I can take you.

It's a miraculous thing that I no longer think I need to.