A beautiful mind
My internal monologue, at least when directed at strangers, is nothing like what comes out of my mouth, and more like a hard-boiled detective as imagined by a 7-year-old girl. Of a girl indecisively weaving in and out of the line to the staircase out of the subway: "What's your game, sister?" Of a boy with elaborate headphones: "Nice ear-glasses, chump."