I come from a long line of anti-social.
My father only dealt with the others when he was half in the bag. My mother could smell a neighbor approaching from thirty miles away. She’d yell for my dad to head them off at the pass.
“You know she just wants to see how dirty the kitchen is, Steve. That’s why she drops in, she’s a busy body.”
I remember being in my bedroom when the alarm bells went off. The histrionics, the expletives-the RED ALERT…humans approaching…humans approaching.
I never understood it until recently, the absolute need to shelter myself away from stupidity. No offense, but I’d rather chew glass than deal with 99% of humanity.
So my husband wanted me to go to the annual art show held in our local wildlife conservancy. It’s a hundred and fuck you outside, so I went kicking and silently screaming.
No one will even recognize me, I soothed myself.
I no longer dye my hair or wear makeup. I wear huge sunglasses that cover half of my face, and avoid eye contact as if it were monkey pox in the making.
Come. The. Fuck. On.
There are approximately six people in the tri-state area who know I write a blog. Before WordPress unceremoniously deleted years of research, I had developed a bit of a following locally. I came across these people randomly, and it surprised me each and every time my blog was mentioned. This was at a time when the truth was just beginning to come out-a novelty, if you will.
Slowly I turned.
It was Chief Two Crow Feathers, and don’t get me started on how he acquired the nickname.
I’m never leaving the house again.