Hobo

I woke up this morning completely glad to be myself again.

Sometimes I feel so bipolar. I move from content to dissatisfied at the speed of light. Rarely do people see this though as it’s all so internal. I know enough about being a Cancer to know that my moods change so frequently that it might not be worth sharing. I keep the crazy to myself most of the time. I think this is why I’m a deleter of things. I work hard to only say what I mean and burn the extraneous away, but I get caught up in bad thoughts, things that are not necessarily true. I can be highly insecure. It’s awful.

My cat is burrowing her face into my armpit. It is cute. I’m sure when I do this to the dr. it is not cute, but disturbing.

I finally managed to get my ass into a salon today. I sat in a new guy’s chair and told him I didn’t care anymore, I just wanted it gone. He raised an eyebrow in concern and I explained the rut I was stuck in. My mop grows and it gets heavy. I shear it off into the same haircut I’ve had since I’ve moved here and I look like the me of yesteryear and it’s boring. I don’t care. Do something. Shave it off. Give me a mullet. Anything.

Anthony responded well to my ambivalent behavior and managed to make my head 10 lbs lighter. It’s not necessarily shorter though. It’s just…different.

I applauded the end result.

He picked up my messenger bag to carry downstairs to the reception desk and nearly stumbled with it.

“It’s full of dead babies,” I said.

“What?”

“I mean it’s full of yoga clothes, laptop, hoodie, books and crap.”

“Jesus.”

“I know,” I answered. “I’m like a freaking hobo.”

“I like you,” he replied and laughed. “Hobo is such a good word.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

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