Oh, David Bowie. When your new album arrived in my dad's store, I stared at your otherwordly pale face, zigzagged in blue and red, hair a vibrant shock, breathless over your gorgeousness. You were the first non-family member who let me know it was okay to be a fucking weirdo, that I didn't have to be like Margie Anderson, the poor man's Marcia Brady in my fifth grade class. It was okay to lift my head and walk with pride in bright blue Converse high tops and bright red hiphuggers and white smiley-face belt. Everything was going to be okay.