Time spent driving east is when I prepare for the stares. Part of my battle with anxiety, a BIG part, is constantly remembering that no one gives a shit about me. Left unchecked self-absorption engulfs my consciousness. Like a teacup poodle, my ego sits trembling on a satin pillow. Perpetually expecting the judgement it was created to receive.  99% of the time, it’s true for everyone.  No one is thinking about you – they are too wrapped up in themselves.

I’m not truly that odd-looking, until I visit certain places from my past life. Then I get the looks. I consistently spend time in places where I don’t get looked at so now I can tell when people are really staring. Out here on the edge of East Memphis, there are people that openly stare. And then, inevitably, one old man HAS to comment on my tattoos. It’s cultural, generational, racial, and gender-derived patronizing at its worst. The same person is not compelled to ask a biker dude with a snake tattoo about whether “that hurt”.

I am crazy, but not about this.