7
I don’t want to go home.
Gretchen sort of offered to give me a ride, although she spent so much time looking through the lost-and-found for something to cover her white leather seats that I left without saying goodbye. I need to walk, despite my cobalt hue. I don’t even care that people might think I just robbed a bank. Maybe they will fear my wrath.
When antisocial sentiments spike, I go to Powell’s. The world’s greatest bookstore. In the many blocks between the Register and the bookstore’s front steps, I practice Dr. McCoy’s breathing exercises. Everything smells and tastes like dye.
How am I going to face my family tonight, blue skin aside, and admit that I will soon be unemployed? Did this all just really happen? But I’m good with obituaries. Grieving families email to tell me ho
