Paragraph Eight

I think I should cut my hair, dye it black and then buy a bus ticket to middle-of-no-where-America and get a job as a farm hand or a factory worker. I should rent a room in someone’s basement and start reading obscure novels about pioneers. Maybe I could learn to compost and eat nothing but organic and whole wheat, drink only water and locally brewed beer, maybe some California wine as well. I would have no stove, just a hotplate and I would stop watching television of course, I would wear long skirts made of hemp and cotton and burn all of my bras. I would write a paper on how bras are a constriction of my freedom and man’s modern way to suppress women. I could start buying only American made products and learn to shoot a gun, drive a pick up, no a scooter that runs on vegetable oil and scorn everyone I find for their carbon foot print. I would meet a woman and be confused about my feelings for her and then move on once she got to know me too well. Find some other basement apartment or one in an attack and change my name to something like Lauraleen. I would write home of course, but never call.