2001-09-09 - 2:14 a.m.
I want to be a gypsy. A runaway, a nomadic princess. Gold toothed, silver embellished. To wrap myself in magenta shawls. Have my destiny foretold in crystal balls. Be a wanderer, hassle-free, rent-free. Play my music and read the stars. Be enticing to you only because you know so little about me. To invite you to unravel the mystery.
They always say women work in mysterious ways. But no, it's really simple if you bother to overcome your age-old vanity. Look past yourself, and the fashionable tableau vivant of love, commitment and relationships. You'll see I'm just like you; no more and definitely no less.
Did I go off tangent again, I meant to tell you about my desire to live the life of a gypsy. Chain of thoughts: gypsy-mysterious-women-wretched men. I've always been intrigued by word association cognitive processes.
To be crass, brash, crude, rude. Marginalised, forgotten, left alone. Naughty, free-spirited, selfish, selfless- who would care. Crafty, content, disregard all things proper. Peddle, steal, but I won't beg.
