When I was a little girl, I went to a private Christian school. There were no official uniforms, but provocative clothing like tank tops was not allowed. Dancing was not allowed on the property. Our science textbook was titled God’s Great World. Questionable children’s literature was censored with black Sharpie.
In a notably stifling environment, I experimented safely with imagination, drawing and selling pictures of unicorns on the playground for a nickel, until the sixth grade, that is. Two months after I turned twelve, my family began watching and, as we did with all television worth viewing, recording Futurama. It was the proverbial apple in my complacent Garden, a new animated world of strange creatures, weird language, and a gorgeous purple-haired role model. Suddenly, I was hiding TV Guide articles about the show in the back of my school binder, tracing over and coloring in every print ad I could find, and explaining to my best friend the circumstances in which I thought Leela and Fry should fall in love and get married while we played on the teeter-toter. I’d never experienced anything like it before.
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