Confessions of an only child

I'm playing the villain, baby, just like you want! —Angelina Jolie in "Girl, Interrupted"

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Her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez faire for others.

―F. Scott Fitzgerald (This Side of Paradise)

I grew up a happy, healthy child in a bright, balmy world of illustrated books, banana trees, sea vistas, and generous strangers with a canine eagerness to please. The buildings of my childhood in Amoy were colonial and as white as the inside of oyster shells, with parks and zoos that created a kind of private universe for me and my wild, wild imagination. Everybody liked me, everybody doted on me, everybody praised me. Spoiled, you might say. And you’re right. But don’t you dare say that it made me weak, that the lacquered toys dampened my ambition with complacency. Whatever you think it did to me, it did not leave me shallow or stupid. Instead, it taught me how to seek pleasure unapologetically and get away with it (until you don’t, unfortunately).

My childhood was one glowing nativity scene where smiling adults bought me candies, and it felt like the entire world craned its neck to lean closer toward some kind of messianic gravity that I secretly knew since the day I was born.

When a girl is raised on attention, she grows up wanting more of it. It made me believe that I was worth the trouble, worth the softness, that when I reached out my hand, the world might actually fill it. I won’t lie and pretend I don’t enjoy being the centerpiece.

The only child, with black-pupilled obsession and strong-jawed determination, has the existential responsibility and resilience of the eldest child, the loneliness and awkwardness of the middle child, and the entitlement and brattiness of the youngest.

I started a clique in kindergarten. I had two confidantes that I treated like minions. Wherever I went, the other kids followed. There was a boy I deemed a loser and refused to let join my clique. His mom ended up asking my mom if I could be nicer to him. Pitiful.

When I was five, I had my physiognomy read by a Taoist (or something like that, like a professional physiognomy reader), who said that I would have a good life. “A comfortable life without working too hard.” The Taoist looked at my hands and said that I’m good at spending other people’s money. So far, everything the Taoist said has been true.

When I was six, I smacked a girl across the face on a school trip for taking the window seat. I felt incredibly terrible afterward but I couldn’t swallow my pride to say sorry. So we sat in silence the whole way home. As my apology, I let her have the window seat.