It used to take me a long time to write. I would need to set
aside three hours to write a one-page journal entry. Now that I have a puppy, I
need to set aside five hours for two paragraphs.
On the bus this morning, your average middle-aged man got on
and sat next to me. He said thank you, although I hadn’t done anything.
“I like your hair. Beautiful.” Strange because I also hadn’t
done anything to my hair.
I mumbled thanks with a small smile and pretended to read
something on my phone because, admittedly, I was a little creeped out.
The bus was hot, and I had my sleeves rolled up. As I stood
to get off at my stop, the man looked at my arm, disapprovingly, “Are you
kidding me?! Tattoos?!”
Seems like as soon as I get to the Eastside, my tattoos make
me an outcast, regardless of long sleeves all summer.
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