People don't see me. This usually happens in lines when I'm standing in the middle of outrageousness--like that guy with the dreadlocks and biker chains or that girl with the sparkly boa. No, I haven't frequented clubs recently. But I have been to grocery checkout lines and bank tellers. They don't see a drab girl in the middle of a flock of peacocks. They see nothing. Yes, my powers of invisiblity come into play when I'm in a line and some people want to cut through instead of walking around.
Sure, I get annoyed, but there's not much that I can do about it. I'm one of those itchy people that get ignored on a daily basis--the street musician, the beggar man, the pasty-faced valet who holds his hands out for the keys--simply because I don't belong in the world's chic originality.
I want to stand at the apex of the podium and proclaim (using a megaphone of course): "I exist! I'm here! I'm as human as you are!" I'm not a genius. I'm not a procreative nut who wants to single-handedly populate Mars. I'm not a saint. But I think like everyone else. Therefore I am.*
Being a nonentity to some people can be dangerous. For example, go-cart drivers. I was walking on a path designed for pedestrians when a campus security guard in a white go-cart barreled out of nowhere pushing 30 miles per hour. I froze--the cliched deer in the headlights--paralyzed for half a second with all my previous thoughts wiped from my head. The next second, I threw myself to the side before I was turned into a bloody smear on the pavement.
The guard didn't break. I didn't hear him utter a curse or shout an apology. He didn't stop to see if I was unhurt. To him, I had simply not been there. Okay, so maybe he would have felt something if the wheels had run over my body, but I'd bet anything that he'd think it was a squirrel. And since it's a four day weekend, no one would have noticed anything out of the ordinary until Monday. By then, the birds would have pecked out the juicy bits.
*Yes, I know I shamelessly butchered Rene Descartes' "I think; therefore I am."
Links: Scrollbar Racing. Another choice opportunity for a hard-working bookie. Goat Born With White '3' On Its Side. Yeah. And that petrified sweet roll that looks like Elvis is Graceland's new god. Dosgames.com. Last night, I had a computer game dream. I was playing three games simultaneously, none of which I've ever heard of before. I was in the games--mazes which were woven together but remained separate. One was futuristic with robots and lasers. The second was magical with monsters that resurrected after I thought I killed them. And the third had a ghost which tried to take over people's bodies. I am not a gamer. I don't even play computer games occasionally. It simply doesn't interest me. So I find it odd that I dream of it.
