The Devil In Her Eyes

The first time I met my paternal grandmother, she said something that should go down in the history books as involving physic powers:
"Boy, you can just see the devil in her eyes."
I tend to believe this may have been about the time my parents began considering "selling me to the gypsies". They did threaten me with such a fate later in life, to which I responded, "Really? I could go live with the gypsies?! When?!"
From there on in, it was pretty much them making bets (or, if you ask my dad, battling over 'dibs') on how long, exactly, I might live.
I have been raped twice- both times in vehicles, both my friends-of-friends.
I have broken my leg in three places, by jumping into a swimming pool- with no water in it. On a dare. And played soccer, climbed monkey bars, and beat the crap out of some boys with a half-leg cast and crutches.
I have had stitches more times than I could count.
I have been an alcoholic.
I worked for/ran with the carnival my first summer as an adult.
I moved away from home my first chance.... you know, besides getting kicked out.
I joined the Army.
I have 53 hours worth of tattoos, and counting.
At one point, I drank, smoked and dipped tobacco.
I swear like a frigging sailor, and it borders on uncontrollable.
I like blowing things up.
I set a quarter of my back yard on fire in fourth grade.
I almost got suspended-in Kindergarten- for hitting one of the boys. (Back.)
I convinced my sister there was a talking mongoose living in the walls of our cinder block home.
I still beat up on the boys every chance I get.
I joined the Army to be a medic mostly because it meant I would get to put needles in people and taunt them if they didn't like it. Oh, and because I couldn't think of any job crazier that women were allowed to do.
I lived in a hotel for a few months- the same hotel the head housekeeper got stabbed to death by one of the tenants while I was out at the mall.

My grandmother knew too much. Her brother was a historian for Salem and it's witch trials, and I can't help but believe that there's something a little spooky about our family in general. I've survived hell and back, and I'm not the least bit scared of death. I'm not afraid of heights, I'm not afraid of snakes, spiders, driving too fast, flying, or any of the other phobias people generally seem to have at least one of. I like knives, I like guns, and I'm perfectly okay with the idea that I could die any day.
I am happy, and I will, in one sense or another, survive anything this world has to throw at me. I may be high-strung some days, but, mostly, I'm just along for the ride.
I mean, who's going to hurt the girl with the devil in her eyes?