|Lula's Army of Darkness
||[Jun. 9th, 2005|02:11 pm]
|||||"Kiss from a Rose" - Seal||]|
insane people adore me. they track me down. they beg to be my minions. when i was 16, a homeless guy was walking -- rather, drunkenly staggering --north on a sidewalk. i was travelling south. he smiled at me. i'm an affable, responsive and empathetic sort of girl. i smiled back. he grabbed me, pulled me to him and gave me a kiss on the cheek. i can't describe the foulness in words. i was traumatized. i don't even think i've told anyone until now. i washed my face three times when i got to the cafe where i was to meet a friend. i was flushed and out of sorts. "what happened?" my sister-friend asked. "ugh. you don't want to know." and really, she didn't. i love her to death, and i've known her since 5th grade, but we cannot talk without discussing what she bought that day or what cute boots she's planning to buy. i don't do clothes. i could pick an outfit for someone, but not for me.
at any rate, even before this incident, the great unwashed were the only folks who looked at me sideways. and it had to be sideways because the cocked their heads to see past whatever demons/daemons or gods were talking to them. i was always walking with a cutie and it was the cutie who got construction workers wolf-whistles or quiet double-takes from business men. i got the homeless. the lucid homeless: "hi. i live at the mission, but do you want to have a cup of coffee?". occasionally i did want a cup of coffee. there are many things that make me feel unsafe. walking at 2am was not one of them. i always felt protected. no homeless person wanted me harmed. and if i were harmed anyway, my brothers would take care of it. i hear horror stories about women walking, being followed, being accosted, men-folk forgetting their discretion. never a problem for me. my problem was wondering what i could do on my own. was i pitiable? what were they protecting? what was i worth? i can't kick ass on my own, can i? why bother? cull the hurd. they aren't interested, though. insane people want me *alive*. i've had them "protect my honor" on more than one occasion. i found it amusing, them thinking that i had anything like honor.
there was the guy who looked like charles manson who passed by when i was with my roommate, a pretty girl from guam, and her boyfriend. he looked directly at me. he did not leer at the guam girl as i was used to. as we got closer i saw the extent of his personal filth. this guy wasn't just disheveled. his skin and his jeans had become one. i recognized the off look in his eyes and braced myself for it.
"ooooohhh," he muttered. "look at the little BAY-bee! mommy, daddy and...baaaayyyybeee."
it was really embarrassing and wouldn't have mattered if i were alone. i wish i could telepathically let them know not to talk to me in mixed company. meaning when i'm mixing with sane folk. but they won't have it. and it never ends. lately, though, it's just been looks. sideways glances.
if only my army of the insane would do my bidding. but then they'd be working in cubicles. if only they would get organized in my name. i'd have them kidnap people and hold them in secret hideaways until i felt like paying a visit. they'd kidnap pretty people. they'd take care of them: "it puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."