Diagnosis: Highly Intelligent

*sigh*

And so, again. I prove why I should not be allowed out in the world. Without a handler.

I was out walking Lobo the other morning. And two cars worth of Marylanders stopped me. To ask for directions.

Me (way too excited to be helpful to strangers): I’m sorry for what I’m wearing. I wasn’t supposed to be out in the world right now. But Bo wanted to walk.

*blank stares*

That’s my dog. Bo. *gesturing down at Bo who is looking disinterested and pretending not to know me.* I’m sorry. You don’t care about that. Ok. So I’m not good at this. But I’m gonna try. Do you know where the horse farm is?

*blank stares*

No. Of course not. You’re not from here. That’s why you’re asking for directions. I’m not sure it even qualifies as a horse farm. Or farm of any sort. But there are horses…

*heads nodding*

So you go that way. And when the road gets bendy, stay to the right. Bendy. Like. No. I mean, it curves. But it also stays straight. It. Does this. *me gesturing both awkwardly and inaccurately with my hands*

Don’t go straight there. Stay right. Back toward the meth garage. I don’t actually think they make meth there. Anymore. But I’m pretty sure some shady shit is happening there. But they also have this really cool sign about mercy and justice and so I think they’re good people…

*starting to decide they can just find this shit on their own*

Anyway. I’m pretty sure I got them there. To where they were going. I mean, I never saw them again…

Bo asked me to please not embarrass him like that again.

“Maybe you just shouldn’t talk to the people anymore.”

Whatever. I tried.

Anyway. Do y’all remember that time. When I was volunteering at the Deschutes Street Pub. And the dude behind me said, “Everything looks real good back here.” And I turned around to thank him.

…and he was talking into a radio…?

Yeah. That’s a fun memory.

So, I went to see Chiro Doc yesterday.

And I’m lying there getting my back electrocuted. Back in the Matrix table area.

And some man walking through says, “Who is this hottie in the blue pants?”

And. Ok. So, I knew he wasn’t talking to me. I did. I knew because my pants were grey. Not blue. But also because earlier in the day, a co-worker told me he had the same pants. He told me. My male co-worker has the same pants as me.

*sigh*

So, not only were my pants not blue. They also weren’t hot.

And my brain was actually explaining all of this to my body. In a very panicked tone. To try to stop it from what it was already doing.

No, I did.

I looked up and smiled. And made eye contact.

In time to hear the dude on the table next to me laugh and say hello.

As the dude who was definitely not talking to me threw some pity at me. By way of sad eyes.

They said, “awww you poor thing. Your pants are perfectly fine.”

But they weren’t fine.

They’re man pants.

Man pants aren’t fine.

I mean, I’m not gonna stop wearing them. Because they’re one of three pairs of non-jeans pants that I can still button. Or pull up over my thighs.

But dammit I have got to stop reacting to people’s compliments. That aren’t prefaced by my name.

Fuck. I probably shouldn’t even react then.

Because y’all wanna use my name for every damn body.

I just can’t react to compliments ever.

Do you know how hard that is for a Leo???

We want all of the compliments. All of the time.

Dammit.

But it’s fine.

Because Chiro Doc diagnosed me as highly intelligent yesterday.

“Huh. You’re wearing two different socks.”

Yeah.

“Why.”

Because those were the two I pulled out of the drawer this morning. (That’s a lie. I pulled them out of the laundry basket. Where my clothes hang out. After they’re washed. And wait for me to wear them again. But she didn’t need to know that.)

“That’s good. I think only highly intelligent people don’t waste time matching socks.”

And she’s a doctor.

So…

I don’t need to have hot pants.

I’m highly intelligent.

I keep having to tell people this. Can I get a copy of my chart. After you write that in?

“Haha.”

Or even just a note. On letterhead.

“You’re funny.”

Haha. Yeah… Ok, but I’m not joking. I need a selling point. And I’m wearing man pants. So…can I?

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