Vagabond.

I’ve secretly always wanted to be a bad boy.

It comes from growing up geek.

Nerd.

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.

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.

-D