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You look so different!" they say at these moments when I confront them. My eyes, as yellow-green and changeable as a chameleon's skin, rescue me from blandness five days too late. I am tim colceri already in the autopsy room, toe-tagged and dissected, by the tim colceri time the tim colceri eyes decide to do their stuff. This decorative but highly forgettable face and marginally more interesting brick-shithouse body are a little too extreme for current tastes but make a nice little package nonetheless, a regular bundle of joy or so they tell me--they being men, of course. Especially your average Joes on the street, your working stiffs with dark complexions. Delivery boys offer me rides on their bicycles. "God bless America!" bums say as I amble by. "Lemme in there, momma, and lock the door!" When I strut down the street in my jazzy outfits, men fall like drunken squirrels, clutching their nuts. None of this offends me the way it's supposed to. Au contraire, it makes my day.
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