I'm sitting in a Starbucks, surrounded by bald men -- like really bald men. All I wanna do is rub my hand on them in a wax-on, wax-off kind of motion. I'm not sure what this means, but maybe it's a sign that I'm moving toward being ok with physical interaction again?
No, probably not.
It probably means I'm a horrible person who can't just sit and enjoy her coffee on a Sunday morning and let men enjoy their coffee on a Sunday morning without attention being drawn to their bald heads.
Thing is though, I'm not looking at these bald heads with anything negative in mind. On the contrary, there's this one bald head that's particularly grabbing my interest. It's shining like a beacon under the ceiling lights. It's that kind of bald that invokes a sense of enlightenment, peace, like this bald head decided to be bald on purpose because hair, and all the maintenance it requires, was slowing down its mindfulness, its ability to be zen. It's a spiritual type of bald in the middle of the Starbucks on Sunday morning. I feel as if it holds secrets, power. I want to go over to it and place gold paper on it and pray for spiritual guidance. I want it to know everything I seek and hold deep inside myself. I want to worship it like the idols the Old Testament warned me about.
I think that was the Old Testament.
I can't remember.
I bet that bald head would know if it were the Old Testament or not. I bet it knows EVERYTHING. All the secrets of the universe. All the nuances of happiness. All the lyrics to REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It."
Maybe it has some sort of transference power, like if I put my hand on it, I could learn everything it knows by osmosis. My body would vibrate and the heavens would open up right there in the middle of the Starbucks on Sunday morning, and everyone around me would be like, oh man, I should have thought of that, but I wasn't paying enough attention to notice that spiritual bald head sitting there; I was too busy reading one-liners on Twitter. Awww man, I really fucked up.
Because that's the thing, ya know: A spiritual bald head only has the ability to transfer spiritual knowledge to a hand placed upon it one time in its lifetime. Then it's all used up. Yep. I would be the only person there to become enlightened, and everyone else would be jealous. Yeah, they'd be totally jealous of my spiritual enlightenment, like oh wow, that chick in the denim jacket and motorcycle boots is sooo zen. Man, I wish I were that zen . . . and my hair looked that messy chic at the Starbucks on Sunday morning. And then an ex would walk in, and he'd see me sitting there, shrouded in a golden aura of absolute peace and enlightenment and perfect, effortless bed-head curls falling about my shoulders, and he'd be like, oh my god, I knew she was amazing when I had the unbelievable opportunity to be with her, but I was just an ignorant, undeveloped little child, confused by my Cheerios, unable to keep up with how ahead of me she was in terms of her spiritual enlightenment. And I'd be like yeah, that's fucking right. I'm fucking spiritual, buddy. You fucking blew it. And then he'd start crying, and he'd throw himself down at my feet, clutching tight around my motorcycle boots and be like, Oh Ronnie, I'm so sorry I was such an immature, unenlightened child. Please, please, please teach me your ways. I want to glow like you. And I'd be like, you know what ex-boyfriend? I really wish I could, but I'm just too busy right now doing all this spiritually enlightened stuff, so I just don't have time to, but you can follow my spiritual path on Twitter. And I'd write my spiritual Twitter handle on his forearm with my lipstick, and he'd just stand there gawking at me like I were some mythical goddess who came down from the sun to give him a vision. And I'd rush to the bathroom and take some super hot spiritual selfies to post on my new spiritual Twitter so when he looks me up -- cause let's face it, he's gonna look me up IMMEDIATELY -- he can see, not only how spiritually enlightened I look, but how pretty. And photogenic. And not anywhere near my real age. And then he'd be like, oh my god, she looks even younger than she used to, must be all that enlightenment. And then he'd just stare at my spiritual selfie, and he'd feel empty inside, like severely empty, like a hole was in his heart. And he'd cry. Oh my god, he'd cry so much -- till his face was all puffy, and he couldn't leave the house for days because he'd be so embarrassed for crying like a little baby bitch. So he'd stay inside and cry some more and order delivery and gain like 43 pounds in a matter of days. And it'd be so tragic. It'd be the most tragic thing because he wouldn't have the spiritual prowess like I have to just lift himself above his trivial, day-to-day troubles. And I'd be off on my spiritual Twitter with like a million followers tweeting at me like, oh my god, Ronnie, you're just sooo enlightened. How'd you do it? And I'd quote Confucius.
Or Taylor Swift.
But I would never tell them my secret. I would never tell them about the shining bald head at the Starbucks on Sunday morning. Because seriously, dude, get your own fucking zen.
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.