You itch ferociously at the poor quality fabric of your inside leg. There seems no relief from the feeling.
Pizza lines the inside of your stomach, and you imagine finding a lady hobo to take care of you. Perhaps you could help sort out each other's itches, become a cool indie couple, start your own record label.
You recall your boss once remarking how incompetent you were, how low on energy and drive. The remarks upset you at the time. They had driven you to act impulsively for the best part of a week, as you signed up for a karate class, took up jogging, and had three one-night stands with borderline attractive office workers who all considered you their 'boyfriend' from that point on.
You recline against the dumpster and reflect on your bosses inability to control you now. This cheers you up. You think about having not kept up with your jogging since becoming a hobo, and with a rush of blood to the head, you sprint out onto the pavement.
The feeling is exhilerating. Your head swims with the endorphins as you brush aside indignant salarymen and women, as the converging high-rise buildings blur and loom tall with each passing stride, as angry motorists and open shop windows bite your hobo dust.
Your pounding feet, your heaving chest, your undulating shoulders, all are tingling with nostalgia and joy, and you runheadlong into a large woman in a beige suit. |