It has spikes on it. SPIKES! Nobody wants to tell a girl wearing spikes about their prolapsed colon on the subway...right?
Or so I thought. As I left the house, I ran into my neighborhood admirer. He always compliments my outfits. Maybe he's a deeply undercover fashion designer? Today he stopped me yet again.
"Do you want me to ask you your name?"
"Huh?" I replied, cleverly. Does that even make sense?
"What's your name?"
"Meghan," I blurted out, extending my hand briskly, hoping for a quick shake and a goodbye.
"My name's Mike," he ushered in quickly, but I misheard him.
"Did you say 'Spike'?"
"No, MIKE. Here, I want to show you something..." He unzipped his jacket and pulled it open to the side. What could he have in there? Stolen watches for sale? A puppy? Probably stolen watches?
"Thanks, Mike, but I'm really in a hurry..." I started to bolt up the hill away from the situation when he started to lift up his shirt. I froze. My eyes focused on the waistband of his pants, searching for the gun I was certain I'd find.
"My tattoo! It has spikes in it! I thought you'd like it!"
"Great! See ya around, Mike!" Oh well. I guess wearing spikes to ward off attention from strangers is NOT a viable strategy. I almost regretted not taking a picture of the moment to show you all, it was so odd and surreal.
And as I turned the corner, I worried to myself. Was I rude to Mike just then?
BOOM. That's why strangers feel comfortable baring their souls - and chestpieces - to me in the street. Like it or not, not matter how I dress myself, I am and will always be (gulp)