Anthems of a stray

I knew I was a nomad from an alarmingly young age. By my eighth birthday, I could pack, clean, and unpack my bedroom in a single weekend, everything having it's own home. It was a great way to spend a summer. At fourteen, my mother saw fringes around my wispy frame and asked, "Child, have you been listening to my Dylan records again?". She tried to deny I was a gypsy when I confronted her as a preteen. My dirty hair, olive skin, green-grey eyes didn't help her convince me.
A constant need for change of scenery, of conversation. It didn't take me long to realize how swiftly people became lackluster chores instead of consorts. Maturing into adulthood, I was suspicious of how likeable I seemed to be. Of course, it wasn't me people knew they liked. It was the caricature of myself that is perceived by the general public. That chain smoking alcoholic uncensored thing, somehow not offending anyone. Who wouldn't like someone like that!


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