Most of my hair is gone and I feel good about it. Change, for the most part, is good. I feel stronger, more badass    , especially with the variety of bruises on my legs from boxing.
I decided I'm going to quit my job this Sunday instead of next Sunday, mostly because I feel like I'm slowly becoming a money-hungry zombie. It all feels residual now, I feel like I get deja vu far too often...the paranormal-esque feeling escapes me. Not all people are bad, but the diners that come into my work seem to be cut from the same cloth: most of them are very grumpy or are under the age of twenty, and thus, have no idea how to tip on their daddy's credit card. Some jerk left my co-worker five cents, and the other, seven cents. This is no kind of life. It was with little inspiration that my mom reminded me last night that I'm "Below what the government considers the poverty level." I'm below poverty...I guess that means I'm sort of like...the cardboard box in which the hobo lives. Sweet. Another one of my co-workers scrutinized my newly cropped do and asked "Is this where you met your boyfriend?" I replied: No. "...your girlfriend??" It must of seemed to him, a discreet way to ask if I'm gay, but I realized what he was doing and laughed. Short hair=automatic questioning of one's personal sexual preference. I like boys and I have short hair. If I were a lesbian, I'd have short hair and I'd like girls. It doesn't matter does it?
As I walked up our dark street I heard people laughing like hyenas in the distant and I thought: "How freaky would it be if Alex, Dim, Lodger, and Tramp ( A Clockwork Orange) came running out of the darkness after me. HOW SCARY WOULD THAT BE?! Sometimes random thoughts keep me sane, even when they're a bit strange. I just want a summer, I don't want to work at the diner and continue to come home with sticky forearms and a greasy face. I just want some time before I move to spend.
Sleep well,
  Adieu.