On the night of my 12th birthday I punched a boy in the face for calling me a stupid whore.
Kevin was my best friend Shelley's older brother and picked on us a lot. He was a freshman in high school, the sort of dorky kid who liked to hang out with younger kids because it made him feel smart and strong; we were in middle school. I was laughing at a joke or something else, and he leaned over and whispered "stupid whore" into my ear, whispered it so no one else could hear, whispered it like a verdict. It's a little fuzzy now, but I'm pretty sure I recoiled. I remember being angry like a white flash, being temporarily blinded by it. And remember very distinctly the feeling of my balled-up fist hitting his flesh, the sound it made when it connected. It was the first time I ever hit someone in anger.
Even though I had to act like I was sorry when my mother apologized to his, I wasn't sorry. I wasn't sorry when his mom came to pick them up because his nose wouldn't stop bleeding. I wasn't sorry the next day at the bus stop when I saw I'd given him a black eye. I think I even smirked at him. And other than having an adult perspective of feeling sorry for him (because he was probably teased mercilessly for being a weenie), I'm still not sorry.
* I'm starting with #11 because I'm pretty sure I've broken all but one of the original commandments.
** If the universe is guided by an omniscient and/or monotheistic presence and if we really are sentient puppets and if there really is a heaven and a hell...