Being homeless is more than just a feeling of frustration; more than feeling like every break is a bad one; and more than the fear that one more bad break will have you sleeping in your car, next to a dog badly in need of a grooming. There is a whole group, a subset of things you’ve taken for granted which are gone, kaput, adios. I call them “the little things”. For instance, razor blades. My own personal preference is to use one for about a month, then change it out. Blade cartridges are expensive. You don’t realize how expensive until you see a 5-pack and it’s over $20. That $20 is two days of food for me, so I pass until “things get better”. Currently I’ve been using the same blade for three months. Each shave leaves me bleeding like a horny teen from Friday The 13th. The difference is, I didn’t get to squeeze soft 18 year-old titties before my jugular was sliced. I did get to pet a wet dog. Continue reading “It’s The Little Things…”
The world doesn’t want to hear about labor pains. It only wants to see the baby. – Ball Four by Jim Bouton.
Nowhere in life is that statement more true than with homelessness. In my situation I don’t assign the designation of “friend” based on whether someone gives me a hand, financially or otherwise. I base it on how often someone follows up on my well-being. I’ve found that people who were regular friends text/call less after finding out about my homelessness. Maybe they’re afraid all I’ll do is lament my “bad luck”, and then ask for money. If so it’s a misjudgment on their part. In a call I might mention briefly what I’m going through on a particular day, but mostly I want a few minutes to be my old self; the guy who can talk about events or reminisce, in a humorous way. Continue reading “On Friendship…”