secret number three.
0003) I want to play fair. My father always taught me that winning was better. He made me believe that winning, even the smallest of competitions, would prove to everyone that I ruled Octavian County Day with my french-manicured fist. Ever since the moment he told me that losing was for the weak-hearted, I had to prove him wrong. My mom thought he was setting a bad example, which he was. If that one night when I was nine, all snuggled up in bed and sniffly because I had come in fourth in the Little Miss Westchester pageant, my father hadn't come in and told me that I had to win to be considered important, I never would've gotten kicked out of horseback riding camp. I never would've led those girls to believe that they were ugly.
I never would've admitted that sometimes, winning is fucking overrrated.