When I was six, my mom used to let me sit in the front seat, even though I was way too young for it. We’d be speeding down the LA freeway, windows all the way down, the wind whipping through the car, mixing with the roar of traffic. The city blurred past in a haze of concrete and smog, and then that song came on—the one that goes, _“Live fast, die young, bad girls do it well.”_ I didn’t understand it back then, but those lyrics hit me harder than expected, like they were giving me some kind of permission I didn’t even know I wanted. I can still remember how the bass thumped in my chest, how the words seemed to hang in the air, daring me to live like the rules didn’t matter. It’s funny now, hearing that song at parties, how it brings me right back to those moments, the feeling of invincibility mingling with a kind of reckless freedom. But what was just a catchy tune back then has become a sort of inside joke with myself—a reminder of how something so simple can stick with you, shaping you in ways you only realize later.