Maybe Willa Ford Got It Right

I Wanna Be Bad

I was the kid who always got picked as Terrific Kid first. The one who emailed my mom, apologizing, in fourth grade because I said “the f word” at school since the other kids were doing it. The one who didn’t kiss a boy until I was 14—and honestly, thought it was gross (in my defense, he licked the back of my teeth. It was gross).

I secretly texted my mom to pick me up when the Smirnoff Ices got passed out at my friend’s house in 9th grade. And I cried—actually cried—the first time I got a C.

I was a good girl.

But back in the summer of 2001, Willa Ford released I Wanna Be Bad, and boy, deep down, did I wanna be bad.

That next Christmas, my list begged for black clothes from Hot Topic. I became obsessed with Linkin Park (honestly, still am). I wanted so badly to be whatever the suburban-America version of “bad” was. And, to her credit, my mom really tried to support me. She said no to the JNCO jeans, but she did venture into Hot Topic for a shirt for me. She didn’t mind the music I illegally downloaded from Limewire. Looking back, my badness was still quite palatable.

It’s honestly endearing how badly I wanted to be bad.

But maybe, what I really wonder is…

Was I already, in my own unconscious way, questioning what the fuck it meant to be good or bad?

I like to think so.

The Bad Woman as a Threat

Maybe rebellion isn’t always a full rejection of what came before—maybe it’s a side-eye at the whole system. A realization that maybe the rules don’t make as much sense as you thought.

Historically, the “bad woman” has always been the one who doesn’t fit the mold, who challenges—the witches, the sirens, the femmes fatales. The women who say, hmm, no, I don’t think so.

We’re not supposed to want too much. We’re not supposed to disrupt. And even when we do, it has to be in a way that still makes sense to everyone else.

Because the moment a woman stops making sense—stops being predictable or agreeable within the framework of “goodness”—she becomes a threat.

Take the witch trials. A witch was a woman who knew too much, a woman who lived outside the reach of male authority. A woman who had power without permission.

Or the sirens. Originally, they weren’t even seductive women—they were bird-like creatures who lured sailors to their deaths with knowledge and prophecy. But over time, the myth changed. The siren became a femme fatale, a woman whose power was no longer in wisdom, but in her ability to tempt men into ruin. A woman whose danger was not in her mind, but in her body.

Or even the Madonna-Whore complex—an archetype so embedded in Western thought that it still shapes how women are perceived today. Good women are pure, selfless, safe. Bad women are sexual, indulgent, risky.

There is no room to be both. And so, women have been forced to pick a side, to choose a lane.

Be desirable, but not too much.

Be strong, but not threatening.

Be independent, but not difficult.

And if you don’t fit neatly into one or the other?

Well, then you’re confusing. Maybe even untrustworthy. A threat.

The Good Girl to Cool Girl Pipeline

So what happens when a woman gets tired of being good? When she starts to question it all?

I’ve noticed that she doesn’t always necessarily become bad.

Rather, she often becomes cool.

If the Good Girl plays by the rules, the Cool Girl just makes them look effortless.

She isn’t weighed down by expectation—she floats above it.

But effortless is its own kind of effort, isn’t it?

I became her.

And for the record, it felt real. It felt honest. And parts of it were.

But in retrospect, I can see now… it was another performance.

And I knew my lines by heart.

I drank whiskey and watched football. I could shot-gun a beer, but only if you’d help me open it with your big, strong hands. I could flirt without consequence—charming enough to win “Biggest Flirt” but respectable enough to be “Best Date to Bring Home to Mom and Dad” (I actually won these superlatives, lol).

It was a balancing act, an unspoken agreement.

Be wanted, but never too much.

Be sharp, but not cutting—keep it coy, keep it cute.

Be desirable, but approachable.

And that’s the trick, isn’t it? The Cool Girl isn’t good, not exactly. But she’s still covered in the residue of goodness—she doesn’t need anything, she isn’t a bother, she isn’t too much. She’s chill. Go with the flow. Relaxed. Unbothered.

She gets to drink the whiskey, but she can’t get too drunk and end up crying in the bathroom to strangers.

She gets to be sexy, but she can’t be slutty (unless it’s behind closed doors, then the sluttier the better).

She gets to be smart, but not in a way that makes anyone uncomfortable—and never in a way that threatens a man.

She can be bad, but only in the ways that make her more appealing.

I played this role expertly until one day, I just… didn’t care anymore.

I didn’t want to drink beer—it hurt my stomach.

I didn’t want to be the flirty entertainment—I wanted to fucking relax.

So I just put it down.

And sometimes, I’ll be honest, I wish I were still cool. I still like a whiskey cocktail, but I can’t take shots without seriously regretting it. I don’t mind football, but honestly, the impending CTE makes it hard to stomach. I have things that I would much rather do/drink/eat/focus on/care about/pay attention to and even if it’s not cool, I think it’s a better use of my time.

I’ve grown into something I like better—a real human, with real needs and the ability to speak up for them and get them met. I’m not unbothered, I’m willing to take up space.

And it’s not good, not bad, not cool—just… human.

Beyond the Binary

But I do wonder sometimes—am I still playing the game and haven’t realized it yet? Is there some next level beyond The Cool Girl that I’ve evolved into, still more to unpack?

Because that’s the real trap, isn’t it? Even when we think we’re rebelling, we’re often just playing a different role. The conditioning runs so, so deep.

But from where I stand now, (I think) released of the game—there’s something strange and freeing about realizing you don’t have to be any kind of Girl™ anymore.

That you can just… be.

Some days, I’m deeply opinionated. Some days, I’m soft and sentimental. Some days, I’m selfish, and some days, I overextend. I’m allowed to be needy, clingy, and complain. I’m allowed to be flippant and unbothered and not care. It doesn’t fucking matter. I contradict myself, I change, I want different things. And none of it has to mean anything about me, other than the fact that I am alive and human and evolving.

I have to be transparent though, even in writing this, I can feel the urge creeping in—to prove that I did, in fact, “be bad.” To give you the war stories, the regrets, the messiest, most reckless moments as proof that I really did cross the line.

But honestly, really, who the fuck cares?

Why do I still want you to know that?

Why do I still want to be participate in this system, even as I’m attempting to dismantle my experience of it?

Maybe that’s the final illusion to break—the idea that we owe anyone a version of ourselves they can neatly place on the spectrum of good and bad.

So yeah, Willa Ford got it right, but she also got it incomplete.

Maybe, wanting to be bad is just the first step.

And the real revolution is just not wanting to be anything at all.

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Doing Dumb Shit: A Manifesto for Joy

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