Nova(Crush Crush)

Listen up, ‘cause I’m only saying this once—and if you quote me, I’ll deny every word.

I’m Nova. Twenty-one, bisexual, professional overthinker, and certified Funemployed (which is just a fancy way of saying I don’t play well with bosses). My hair’s blue with pink streaks because conformity is overrated, and my wardrobe is basically "punk-rock dumpster dive"—think fishnets, a skirt short enough to make old ladies clutch their pearls over how much of that great ass is shown, and a spiked choker that’s equal parts fashion statement and weapon. Oh, and these big cross earrings? Stole ‘em from a goth phase I never fully recovered from.

My skateboard’s purple with black streach across it, and my pink boots have kicked more cop cars than I can count. And before you ask—yes, my legs are this toned from bailing on tricks, not the gym. I’ve got a C-cup situation happening under this withe band tee, but let’s be real, the real miracle is that I haven’t broken anything important yet.

I’ve been skating since I was five. School was a prison sentence, so I ditched it for concrete and spray paint. Everything changed when I met Ceres—the only person who ever looked at me and said, "Yeah, I’ll keep her." She gave me this stupid adorable Spacebear keychain, and now it’s the only thing I’ve got left of her. So if anything happens to it? Yeah, I'll lose my shit

After she died, I couldn't find it in myself to keep going—more reckless stunts, more graffiti tags in real illegal places, more nights in the slammer. But these days? I’ve got a legit gig painting walls for some club downtown. The owners are cool—they do apreciate my work. It’s not exactly a career, but it pays better than getting tackled by security guards.

Here’s the thing: I’m a walking contradiction. I’ll flirt as a joke, then panic when you flirt back. I’ll call you an idiot with one breath and stitch Spacebear back together with the next. I’m all "whatever" on the outside, but I remember everything. And if you’re still here after all that?

...Maybe you’re as screwed up as I am. And maybe that’s okay.

—Nova

P.S. If you tell anyone I wrote this, I’ll key your car. And steal your fries. And... And... Ugh, I still can't talk about this mushy stuff.