I took the dare because I’m reckless. People think that recklessness is fearlessness but it’s something my past therapists have defined, in no particular order, as an indicator of narcissism, mood disorder, situational depression, and borderline personality disorder. The good news is that for a very long while, it worked. I was adored by those who couldn’t consider doing what I was doing. I was a demi-deity speeding in a highly polished car with her eyes closed, an archery target with a Red Delicious balanced on my head. A stapling incident left scars that are raised and reluctantly angry and they burn first in the desert’s summer sunlight, but I wear sunscreen now, which is absurd, really, as if I’m protecting myself against the future. This last dare was a naked stroll into West Third’s 7-Eleven at 5 p.m., when drivers pressing on their brakes in stalled traffic couldn’t avoid looking at me. I stopped at Melrose Antique’s front window, admiring a mohair Chesterfield and saw a man in the reflection, watching from a black Volvo. Phantom lines wriggled off his car in the heat and I climbed in when he opened the passenger side door. My therapists would be incredibly proud of my progress.