mystery girl

From conversation last night …

Halsted: I wish I could be a mysterious girl. I’m not a mysterious girl. Brina: No, honey, you’re not. You’re a BOOK. Halsted: [slightly dejected] I’m a book. Brina: And after a few drinks, you’re like – [jumping up and down to demonstrate] I’M A BOOK! READ ME! READ ME!
My whole life, I’ve wanted to be one of those women who kept people guessing. In the good way, you know: the “what could she be thinking, what could she want” way.

Once when I was younger, I ordered a spy kit by mail. I thought by merely owning this spy kit, I would be more mysterious. I would be someone with something to hide, and I would be able to hide it. And hide it well. So I saved up my allowance for what seemed like years, and I ordered the kit.

In the spy kit was a warped magnifying glass, a black notebook, a plastic bag of fingerprinting powder, and grey-painted handcuffs with two tiny keys. My dad gave me one of his old briefcases, and I put the spy kit inside it. I toted this briefcase around for ages, and when asked what was inside it, I said, “My spy kit. I’m a spy!”

Yep. Definitely a book.

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