Thought.is

It was a time when tattoos were still rare acts of defiance instead of thoughtless rites of passage now considered almost tasteless and passé. I wanted to make some kind of commitment, a statement of permanence, a badge of courage, an evidence of my tolerance for pain. I wanted to be a grownup, sure enough about myself to sit there among strange men and their tobacco, and actually take home a piece of their unpopular, devious art on my reckless, virgin skin.

I don’t forgive you. And so I will stoke this grudge like a fire. I will huff on its embers and feed it kindling from leaves and twigs that have broken off branches and have been sucked of life by the sun, air and time.

I am the quiet one in the crowd with an approving nod and a warm chuckle, the one who just smiles at whatever you say. Looking spineless and overly agreeable, I give affirmative responses to most questions and suggestions while appearing to be afloat in my own world. To an outsider, it is one that seems to be without many words.

I did not understand what seemed to be an enormous waste of energy in being so consumed by a few minutes’ delay. It wasn’t until a few years after I moved to the city that I understood that it was only because where I came from, discomfort was a way of life.

It must be a by-product of dense city living, because I’ve never seen a person lose it in the suburbs. Whether it’s the stress of home and work demands, or a lack of personal space, it always amazes me how people can be so publicly on edge and ready to snap, even at seven in the morning. Here are the best lines I’ve heard over the years.

I was in my early twenties when I moved halfway around the world, naively thinking I could start over and integrate myself quickly since I was raised on American television, sang Britney Spears songs and ate my share of Trix (because Jerry Seinfeld said it was his favorite). I believed I was young, educated and smitten enough to make things happen…