Bohemian

I've always...been interested in the Bohemian life. From my spot on our new couch as the other inmates of my house IMed, watched and slept, I read of mystic adventures and love ruling all. As my sister received her second BMW (her first was consequently totaled due to an unfortunate mailbox), I thought of simply jumping into the car and driving off, in my white Lily dress and all. I'd find some handsome, rugged man trying to start a band, and together we'd live in a small but comfortable flat - with cable, naturally - in New York. But not in Hell's Kitchen, because people get killed there and stuff.1

My mom was worried for awhile about my 'obsession'. She tried to get me involved in every sport imaginable, and the acting club at school. But they were so heartless, so 21st-Century that I couldn't bear talking to them. They didn't understand the idea of...not doing anything. Just to not do it. Like the guy in my most recent book, Harry. He just decided not to do anything. I mean, anything. Yeah, he ended up dying alone and sad, but that wasn't the point. See, it would be different for me. I know how to take care of myself. And I certainly wouldn't be lonely.2

One of my friends actually had the gall to ask how I could consider myself Bohemian. By that point, I had considered myself such for about three months. I wore clothes with fancy, almost Indian patterns. I wore tons of brown and dark green, and became a vegetarian. I mean, I was serious about this. And she dared to ask myself how I could consider myself a true Bohemian! I had to explain to her, using small words for her apparently tiny brain, that I fit the criteria, and stood up for what they stood up for. I was an original, being a Bohemian, and I scoffed at how they lived, the 'richies' - prejudiced, snobby, ignorant, fake.3