I’ve secretly always wanted to be a bad boy.
It comes from growing up geek.
The girls always went for the much-romanticized bad boys.
It wasn’t until years after they’d been mistreated, used and abused, that they finally seemed to figure out that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
The upshot is that nice guys are relegated to the aftermath of damaged psyches and usually an extra kid or two in need of a dad.
I’ve always wanted to be more appealing to the pristine, undamaged psyche.
And the criteria seems to be “bad boy”.
But like George Costanza, try as I might, I just had that smell of geek that women seemed to easily detect.
All that changed the other day.
I was weathering a storm of insults.
No home, no job, no car, no driver’s license.
You know, the usual.
And then it happened.
She called me a vagabond.
And she seriously meant it as an insult.
This feels like authentic bad boy material to me.
I have arrived!
There’s just one little catch nagging in the back of my mind.
She’s the type that occasionally gets similar words mixed up. (Someone really should name that condition.)
I have the sneaking suspicion that she may have meant “vagrant”.
Which would be a lot less flattering in my book.
But she said “vagabond”, and I’m claiming it.