1991, Olympia, Washington.

Completely on impulse, you had gone to an all-girl party.

Now, you were in the corner of some girls living room, trying not to get too close to either the girl-on-girl couples that were making out on ever surface possible, the stoners greening out on the back porch, the kids snorting coke off the coffee table, or the girls sitting on the other couch that were playing chess as they debated weather men should be out of the picture entirely.

This wasn’t your scene, not by a long shot.

You would’ve probably been in your dorm, reading The Adventures of Watership Down for the umpteenth time or studying for your Photography exam, not at some house party blaring music you didn’t listen to.

You turned to ask the girl beside you who was blaring through the speakers and pounding into your skull.

“Hey, who’s this?” You called loudly over the music, turning to the girl beside you. She was taller than you by about two inches, she had shaggy brown hair and green eyes, her face full of silver piercings.

With a lazy smile you assumed one only squired from smoking, she answered. “Uhhhhh…. Bikini Kill, I think. I’m Tobi.”