Marissa V 2.0

I'm not going to dye my hair purple. I can say it's about the money but it's not. I have a friend who owns a hair salon who would most likely hook me up so that money shouldn't be too much of an issue. It's not because I'm not sure about the right color. They know their colors and they know what's going to look good on me and what isn't.

This whole thing comes down to cowardice. My fear looks funny in writing. I'm an eccentric person. I do weird things. People know this about me. A lot of people relate to me because I'm different. So why not look a little more unconventional on the outside? What difference will it make?

Why do I have such an irrational fear of being poor? I have plenty of money. Why do I suffer and moan through the afternoon without eating lunch? Why not just take a single bill out of my fattened wallet and cross the street to buy something off of the McDonald's dollar menu? Why am I afraid to eat McDonald's?

Lately I've felt like there's another person inside of me pestering my comfortable shell and making me question the way I live my life. I know that if I let that person be free I could do so many wonderful things. I might buy a truck with the money that I've been saving since I was six. I'd spend my afternoons driving around trying to find a job that would make me happy. Or maybe I wouldn't work. But I'd definitely drive. I'd jump in my car and take epic road trips across the country.

I'd drink and I'd stay out late. I'd learn, but I'd do so on my own terms. I wouldn't turn down my music at stop lights and I'd shop at actual stores---not thrift shops and markdown places. I'd make a movie--a feature length movie, and I'd make it with equipment that I bought. Top-of-the-line equipment. I'd be a Mac girl.

I'd stop being afraid of dancing. I'd learn how to swing dance and I'd get really good at it.

Maybe I would give comedy another shot. I don't know why I'm so reluctant to really invest myself in improv. I used to love it and be good at it. Confidence would never be a problem if I were the new me. Everything would roll off of my shoulders. And I'd stop worrying about impressing people. The new me would be impressive enough.

I wouldn't be afraid to throw stuff away. I don't know why I feel the need to collect, to capture and store and hoard memories. It's all just clutter. The new me would understand that and say goodbye to the extraneous.

I didn't wear socks today. I think maybe I wanted it to be easier for other versions of myself to slip out from under my feet like ringworms and take hold of my ankles, dragging and pushing me in new and exciting directions.

That's a ridiculous image, but the new me wouldn't care what you think of it.