My role model would’ve been Topanga instead of Daria.

I would flirt by making eye contact and smiling instead of by staring off into the distance and scowling.

I would’ve gone on fun high-school dates with someone who was popular in an approachable way, instead of pining after the vampire Lestat (fictional) and insisting that boys my age were way too immature and mortal.

I would’ve played team sports, and would now be part of a co-ed recreational volleyball league instead of closing my eyes and ducking every time someone attempts to throw something in my general direction.

I would’ve done a P.C.A. (personal color analysis) and would understand my color palette instead of repeatedly and futilely dyeing my hair with P.H.M.C. (Purple Haze by Manic Panic), which is visible only under a particularly harsh light, because my hair is too dark.

I would’ve made scrapbooks instead of spell books and would now have a useful bullet journal instead of a junk journal with a lot of dried flowers disintegrating in it.

I would’ve spent more time in cheery coffee shops ordering frothy lattes instead of frequenting a goth club called the Bank with a guy pretending to be the vampire Lestat wearing fake vampire teeth, taking turns biting each other’s necks to a soundtrack of the Cure.

I would have a collection of macramé purses, Yankee candles, and scarves, instead of a collection of crystals, incense, and tarot cards.

I would’ve gone to the movie theatre to watch “Twister,” “Mission: Impossible,” and “Independence Day,” and would be well versed in pop culture instead of having seen “The Craft” thirteen times and being extremely well versed in its soundtrack.

I would’ve attended parties that featured underage drinking instead of making my parents and younger brother watch three-act plays that I had written about what the vampire Lestat would’ve been like as a junior in high school.

I would’ve delighted my college roommate by sharing clothes and obsessing over Dave Matthews instead of lecturing her on the versatility of fish-net stockings and holding séances in our dorm room by the light of illegal candles.

I would know how to throw cocktail parties and what a charcuterie board is instead of knowing how to melt wax over wine bottles in a creative but creepy way and how to operate a Ouija board.

I would be married, with kids, living in a house with a white picket fence and a garden full of flowers, occasionally complaining that the deer were eating my award-winning dahlias, instead of being divorced, with a dog, living in an industrial loft with a freight elevator that opens directly into my living room like a gaping hellmouth, occasionally complaining that the restaurant next door has installed a new flashing sign that’s too bright.

I’d have more color in my wardrobe instead of a closet that could double for that of the costume department of “The Craft.” ♦