My Ipod, a flawed fortress

My face can be a detrimental. It's not because I'm a complete troglodite, it's because it's mostly what's deemed "a friendly face."
I’m constantly accosted by people wanting directions, advice, and human interaction. The physically and mentally disabled seem to have a radar that leads them to me. They generally stare and smile a lot before ambling over to talk or grab at my hands or pat and rub my arms.

This problem is genetic. I blame my mother.
The family consensus is her 30+ years in special education endowed her with some beacon that sends out a signal far and wide that she is a very cute, very caring and immensely approachable person. Unfortunately, a beam from that beacon lasered some funky indelible mark on me that pulls me on their radar as well.

But I am not as genuinely sweet as my mother, and my wardrobe not as easily laundered after pawing from the general and not always hygiene practicing public.

I think that may have influenced the now infamous and temporary darkening of my hair. I thought dark and dour would act as a stop sign, or at the very least a warning to proceed with caution.

Apparently my public, is immune to sign recognition.

So I employ the use of my i-pod when traveling from point A to B.
I do tend to stand out in a crowd, but I thought the clear view of my ipod, encased in a menacing looking skull skin hanging around my neck, with earphones shoved firmly in my aural orifice, would hamper outsiders from attempting to enter my world.

”This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand or war,
This happy breed of (woman), this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall or as a moat
defensive to a house against the envy of less happier lands,”

But still they come.
Now they tap or poke me to get my attention. Sometimes they begin talking whether I respond or not. Usually they’re the monologues of the insane, where questions posed are generally rhetorical, but still they make eye contact hoping I’ll nod knowingly, or glance at them approvingly. I don’t know why they seem to need that. I don’t. Between dealing with clients all day and then listening to my husband’s daily installment of the soap opera where the main characters are all butchers, which he calls work at Esposito’s Fine Purveyors of Meat, I could use a moat around my scepter’d isle.

But just when I’m ready to look stoned faced and scary, some wee bairn in a goofy hat his Mum slapped on his head, looks up at me from a stroller and waves. Despite not being a fan or the pre-university set, in a split second, like a pavlovian conditioned dog, the ice breaks, I wave and the kid smiles.

And suddenly, there’s someone rubbing my arm again, and I feel their fingers adhere slightly to my crushed velvet jacket.

Internally, I scream EWWWWW!!
Externally, I increase the volume on Cruxshadows, and just nod.