People frequently ask me about my harrowing, hilarious upbringing in Fresno — and I always try my very best to explain the felonious family in which I grew up:
We were raised, hopelessly out of place, in a rigorously middle-class, upwardly mobile neighborhood — because, you see, my parents were movin’ on and movin’ up from the impoverished lives where they had each started. They were like reckless, young pioneers who liked to fuck, fight, gamble, shoot guns, and make babies – sometimes even with each other. Despite my overabundance of sisters (6 or 7. I always forget which. No, seriously.), my house wasn’t anything like “The Brady Bunch” or “Little Women.” We were more like “Eight is Enough” meets “Reform School Girls.” We were OUT OF FUCKING CONTROL.
My ten siblings and I were like a gang of renegades, raised fearlessly and recklessly in a dysfunctional Wild West sort of a childhood — of which cardsharks, rogues, sheriffs, showdowns, showgirls, shootouts, saloons, vigilantes, and firearms played a large part. We were the SO-NOT-O.K. Corral.
We were like a Mongol horde…a pack of Comanches…a thundering herd…The Plague. We were audacious, impervious, and most of all, notorious — descended from criminals, rogues, shitkickers and thieves. But, we hung tight – and, for the most part, survived.
In my family, you are born and bred to be a badass — because you have to be a badass just to fucking SURVIVE my family.
This is my amazing sister, Jenny, when she was a teenager. My book opens with her…because of all 11 of us kids…Jenny is THE BIGGEST BADASS OF US ALL.
You wanna know where I come from?
THIS IS WHERE I FUCKING COME FROM.