Essay [...is this supposed to be a new topic?]

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How and why I give the wrong impression to complete strangers.
07.01.2013

I went to the library today.
Afterward, I walked up the street for along time. It seemed like hours.
Just as I was about to turn into the office supply store, a guy said:

"I like your bag"

The bag on my back is clearly marketed for 10 year old girls. It's a bright pink and white, with little cartoons on it. Drawings of completely inaccurate Earths, rainbows with no indigo in them, poorly constructed figures with no hands and ridiculous grins.

"...thanks?"
"Hey, I've seen you walking, you are everywhere. I see you walking around downtown all the time"
"That's interesting. I'm almost never downtown"
"Really? Well, hey you want to go-"
I grin and interrupt:
"No."

I turn into the store.


As I start back to the green line, I realize I have that thing with my walk going on. I have a little more "f*** you" in my step.
I can feel it, without looking at myself.

I'm seated into my hips but somehow my pelvis is almost tipped a little forward. My shoulders have this uncommon inward angle, this beautiful awkward thing going on. My arms are either lankily swinging to my sides or angled out, with my hands stuffed in my side pockets.

My steps start with my knees and shins, not my feet- it must look like I'm on the hunt for something. If I weighed half as much, one could freeze my steps- I might look like I was modeling couture... that elegant and grotesque way they mold themselves- the way one is supposed to model clothing that no one can afford or sit down in.

I reach the T station; I am afraid to look at anyone.

If I glance up, I might try to engage with someone in a completely inappropriate manner. They might see that I currently, even if only for a short time, have just absolutely no f***s to give.
As I move, everything feels choreographed.

Smooth and controlled.
I am afraid I'll hear music from one of the random musicians that loiter against the walls... it might make me so happy I'll laugh. I'll look like the crazy person I am.

Though really... only a couple people can make me feel that way.



So instead I scowl and look at the tracks, waiting and trying to ignore all the humanity around me.

No wonder people think I'm a b****.

I catch sight of someone's foot and remember: today I walked over a grate in the sidewalk twice as long as I am tall.

I don't usually do that. I'm usually worried it will snap and I'll fall, lacerating my legs on the way down.

Why did I do it today? Am I getting less and less intimidated by life?
...or perhaps I am taking less rational action. Possibly the thought of slicing through my legs and falling into a sewer no longer phases me.

I can't tell if this is the crazy. No one else can either.
By appearance, I'm just a frigid b****, waiting for the red line now.

I stare at the tracks and think about the third rail...
I've always wanted to walk on it.

For no reason.

This is not supposed to be a topic as such, but a chapter in a book written in the style of a diary.

No you misunderstand the question.

I asked about a new topic I meant are we supposed to be making new topics for writing pieces. Not in reference to what kind of writing piece is it.

I'm the author of the piece and It's an essay. :]
It could possibly go in a book of essays at one point.
Or, like now, go on a random site or two- like here and my blog.

Thus the brackets, I see.

I think it would be advisable since a common thread could become too general, making it difficult to distinguish and discuss each specific piece in an ordered manner.