Waiting at red light. Windows down thanks to wonderful midwestern weather these days. Violent Femmes on the radio. Older teenage guys in car to the left of me talking really loudly over their pre-packaged-emo-angst music.
Come on, you don’t expect me to remember Fall Out Boy lyrics, do you?
Guy driving car: “So, did Dale get that Polo shirt?”
Guy sitting in passenger seat with arm hanging out: “Yeah. I should get one of them, too.”
Driver: “What are you doing this weekend?”
Doucheboy Passenger: “NOTHING. Going out. Maybe PICK UP SOME CHICKS.”
Laughter dies down. He turns to look at me. I turn head slowly and give him patented Don’t-Even glare. He smiles weakly. Light turns green. Still with the wan smile. Feeling bad for the poor guy, I chuckle at him while shaking my head and drive off.
Great, I was always that crazy Indian chick, but now I’m the new crazy Indian chick.
