When I was six, my mother left a box of small garbage bags lying around. I found one, cut the bottom off, and used the cinch-tie at the top to make a small, crude dress. I put it on and looked at myself in the mirror. As my reflection stared back at me, a wave of well-being surged over me, sweeping away any real specifics of that moment. All that remained was a feeling of correctness, like finding just the right word to describe something: a reflection of myself as I knew myself to be, but had yet to see. I turned away from the mirror with a new sensation of beauty and lightness buoying my step. I descended the stairs to show my parents, who sat in the enclosed porch.

A 12-year-old British schoolboy who organized rally to liberate shorts made a trenchant observation yesterday. Chris Whitehead—whose "discriminatory" school uniform code permits skirts for girls but no corollary warm weather option for boys—told a reporter:

Police in Charleston, West Virginia, found Mark Thompson wandering around the woods in a bra and panties and covered in the blood of his neighbor's pygmy goat, which he had killed in his bedroom. He had been high on "bath salts" for three days.