Idiot of the Day Award:

Idiot: “Is your hair different today?”
Me: “Uhhh….no. Yeah. Nope.”
Idiot: “Huh. Must be the black. You don’t wear black a lot…”
My inner voice: Hmmm. Really? Really. Because Carlos calls me ‘a lil too gothy’. If that gives you some insight, like, who says ‘gothy’ anymore? My parents. My parents say it. Oh, and Barbara Walters. She says it. So. Too much 20/20.
What I actually said: “I wear black…”

I let it trail off because...what the fuck. Why do I have to talk to you at all? I don’t know what to tell you, man. My hair is down. And, it doesn’t impress upon me any endearing feelings that you’re trying to pretend that you notice my hair. If tomorrow, I robbed a bank and couldn’t pick me out of a line-up, I’d be cool. We’re not buddies. I don’t want to troll the Regal Beagle with you, throwing your dick at other 40 somethings pretending that they aren’t astoundingly single and lonely.

Pathetic. Is a good word. You are.
The next day, I’m sitting at my desk, working. I have a red cardigan slung across my chair. I happen to be wearing a black t shirt. (Because you don’t own a black t shirt unless you’re a fucking Anne Rice character.)
Idiot: “Oh,” he chuckles, pleased, “…black t shirt…?”
Me: “Yah.” My lips are wrapped up in themselves like an annoyed pretzel. I look like I’m playing “A Wonderful World” on the trumpet. Because I just know. I know what’s coming next.
Idiot: “hmmm. Another black t shirt. Must be a whole black phase…”

Yes. I must be in mourning. For my alone time for today. For my patience. See, I’m allotted only a certain amount in a day. I spent it all on NOT throwing you through the plate glass window. Really? Really. Dude. Seriously.