Contrast

I shuffled up the stairs to be greeted at the top by a confused friend.

“Sandals. You're wearing full army gear and sandals.”

Damn straight.

Contrast has always been beautiful to me. In my younger years this caused crimes against fashion like wearing plaid with floral prints and mismatching neon colors. But now, as I've matured both intellectually and aesthetically, the results of this are more social than stylistic.

Nothing feels quite as special as a caring touch from someone who hates most people all of the time and all people part of the time. My father, a gruff, humorless fur trapper and alcoholic, has never moved me so deeply as the time that he very uncharacteristically called something “bogus”. Small silly things, like funny faces and goofy voices, that would usually be mildly annoying, become hilarious to me when they grace the visages of serious people. Everything just means more to me when it catches me by surprise, and I'm pretty confident that I'll always remember people like the squatter who drives/lives in an expensive Jetta .

On the other side, there's still something deeply satisfying about defying the concepts of human stereotypes that even logical, open minded people carry to some extent. I want to be the sweet, clever, amiable girl in camouflage and combat boots, or the sharp businesswoman with floofy pigtails. And above all, I always want to be the one that no one expects to be dangerous.