I met a woman from California, once, when I was staying in a hostel. She talked about her life. Yoga. Yogurt. She holds a medical marijuana card, she said. Everything about her, she said, was a stereotype. A bunch of us were sitting around, talking. This other guy, he talked about how Charles Bukowski was his favorite author. This guy and I, we got into a fight earlier. He was demanding I say hello to him. I told him I don’t need to say hello to him, I don’t need to know him, he can fuck off. And he did that thing that particularly dumb guys do when they’re looking for a fight, puffing out his chest at me. I told him that he can leave my table. He told me he is paying to stay here, so he will stay at my table as long as he wants. I sighed. “For fucks sake,” I said. And then I stared at him until he left. A stereotype, the kind of guy who idolizes Bukowski. Another guy joined the table. Segued into his background. He does bioscience research but his real passion was architecture. He was exactly the kind of guy you’d think would want to design boxes for a living. He held a very matter of fact and monotone personality. And then the Californian lady looked at me, said I look ‘so mysterious and brooding,’ which itself seemed like a stereotype. I was a writer. I was good at it. I had a scholarship. Now I’m a destitute writer, growing more cynical each day. ‘what are you thinking about,’ she asked me. I was thinking about how my life is on tracks. A lot of transient people in my upbringing. I always thought I’d be different. But look at my life. A road from no place to nowhere. I have been on adventures, but only as some henchman, never a leader, never with my own goals.