Jacket

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Does anyone else suffer from persecution dreams?

This morning had me fending off the unfriendly advances of two local women from the Aloha State in ignorant, prejudiced tones I’m very familiar with from having grown up there.

They approached me smiling, which took me off-guard — until they spoke in their Pidgin English, spoken as if they were Hawaiian royalty and not the Section 8 slumbags they really were.

“Eh, you ugly, you know?”

I stared back, getting ready to flinch or flight.

“Dat jacket’s why. You stand out like one uku in dat.”

The old Carol would’ve run away. But since I grew up and this was my dream, I stood up to these two ugly women. I told them off. I told them they should look in the mirror and invest in several make-up lines before casting stones my way. Then, I asked if they were perhaps lost on the way to Vegas, before sneering, then stalking away.

I wound up somewhere else when I noticed I’d left my jacket behind. Not entirely a bad thing.

I look almost normal — until you notice that oddly shaped, corduroy jacket hanging over me, or the super-bright tennis shoes and the knickerbockers under an oversized bleached-white t-shirt, extra-large.

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