Back in the days when my weekends were rife with acts of ontological terror, I derived great pleasure from storming public places in a cloud of chaos, costume and confusion. From midnight grocery shopping dressed as a priest (with shopping list tucked into a Bible) to begging for spare change in a three-piece suit, I got a buzz from my own special blend of adrenaline and absurdity.
One night I convinced my friends to dress up with me, and we headed into the suburbs to have fun with it. If I remember correctly, I was wearing my standard goth uniform but had sprayed my hair grey and done a quick "old man" makeup job. After rearranging the signs in the frozen foods aisle at the local grocery and standing outside the mall distributing blank slips of paper as if they were religious tracts, we ended up in line at a Taco Bell.
The unsettled patrons were stealing furtive stares at us. Finally, an ill-humored man ahead of us in line turned to face us. "Are you guys in a play or something?" he asked.
I smiled. "Yes, we are. It's called Death of a Salesman. You wouldn't happen to be a salesman, would you?"
I was a real ass when I was young.