Saturday, September 30, 2017

city of dreams

I will be the first to admit, I need to take my own advice. The same common sense bullshit I dole out on a daily basis to a series of nameless and mislead assholes who I casually come in contact with. No matter how much the chips are down, no matter how my back is against the wall, no matter how vague that dull light at the end of the tired and over-used tunnel is, I must go on. I want to go on. My life, this torment of crazy destruction and crippling depression, is too unique to snuff out like a flickering candle light with a nonchalant pinch. I am here on this planet for a reason. What that reason is eludes me and hell, I may never find out the answer to that until the end of my days, but I will live. Not simply exist, but live.
An unforeseen and fruitful event transpired which renewed my hope in humanity, in that this struggle is worth enduring and the outcome, whatever events transpire, will always be both beautiful and strange.
And so it goes, quoth Kurt Vonnegut. I will continue to do that which makes me happy...not for the judgmental acceptance of the system, not my colleagues, not my family nor friends, but me and me alone.
And so...let me pull myself out of this filth and self loathing I have entrapped myself in and continue. Buy the ticket, take the ride. And, of course, Dear Reader, you are always welcome to come along...

Friday, September 29, 2017

one one nine! one one nine!

Stumbling from fatigue over shit soiled sidewalks infested with rats and cockroaches in a post dawn San Diego. Haven't showered in days, glimpse my over exposed phantom leering back at me from a department store window, I mumble, "Man, you look like crap." Dingy, soiled clothes, grey stubble on a sun blistered, gaunt face. I seriously doubt I can physically continue with this experiment. I have become a full-fledged member of these un-noticed masses. People forgotten, people ignored, people despised. I seriously do not know why I am documenting these events. No one cares. Friends are gone. Family a distant and uncaring memory. My life has been encased into a diving bell sinking to the bottom of a black sea, cables severed. I walk and all I think at this point: All is lost. All is Lost.
A familiar voice in my head laughs, "You did this. You get what you deserve." Shut up, you. The sounds of hissing and arching electricity.
Even with the dim glow of an approaching sunrise, the howls of crazed anguish echo up out of the labyrinthine concrete of this unforgiving city.
Silent as ghosts, furtive crackheads shuffle slowly in the shadows, the stench of stale piss and putrefied feces everywhere among piled garbage of abandoned syringes, glass pipes, and smashed bottles of various substance. A black dog infested with mange trots across my path holding a dead rat in its slobbering maw...past row upon row of catatonic schizophrenics wrapped in death shrouds of rotted blankets litter block after block under the baneful eye of the filthy rich in their gilded condos feeding off the ravaged disfavored only a few stories below. I amble with achingly sore and pathetic feet, red eyes focused down through a kaleidoscope of cigarette butts and wadded napkins of shit down down down cold and silent streets brain dull and tepid from insomnia and complete exhaustion. Black lady as emaciated as a corpse slithers up out of a pile a trash and with eyes as bright as the sun asks me with pointed finger of dried and lifeless twig, "Boy...boy, what is it you want?"
I do not stop my slow pace, but mutter in my wake, "I want to die."

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

right foot finally popped

The days drag. I am told I need to get vaccinated for Hepatitis A. It seems I had fallen in to town smack-dab during a goddamn fucking epidemic outbreak. Will definitely get vaccinated. Need my liver for booze.
As I took a shower at Vinnie’s, I sat on the locker room bench, wood worn smooth by the asses of a thousand hobos, and removed my dingy sock to witness my feet digressed into such dire shape. Swollen with obscenely bloated boils and sores. I do admit, I am falling apart.
More of the long, cold nights. Who would had guessed it would be this cold during this time of year?
During the early morning, after coffee and sweet rolls handed out free and gratis at the Neal Goode Center, I trudged to the marina to take a much needed nap. I was abruptly awoken by a huge, slobbering - albeit happy - mongrel licking my face and sniffing through my gear. I guess I could had worst ways of being woken.
The major puss-filled boil on my right foot finally popped. With fresh water and a big Band-Aid I procured from the Free Clinic (I inquired on help for my foot the day prior, but they were closing. The nurse gave me sanitary wipes and bandages) I put on fresh socks and hoped nothing gets infected. Definitely must keep an eye on it.
It's not like food is a problem. At least five times a day, some random charity is dishing out huge and well prepared meals to anyone who is in need. No wonder most of the homeless are wobbling around fat as hogs. Ha ha.
Last night, I was so cold and the tweeker traffic so heavy in the park, sleep was intermittent at best. Around four in the morning, I made my way downtown from Balboa Park, just to get warm from the walk. I really had to crap and knew full well no swanky hotel downtown would permit me to use the lobby restroom, especially in my current state of hygiene. However, after being blocked by five snobbish front desk clerks in five different hotels, I finally met a kind soul working at the Omni Hotel. Not only did I get to relieve my near bursting bowels, but was offered a cup of coffee to boot. What a luxury. Now only if I had a cigarette to compliment the occasion.

Monday, September 25, 2017

a reoccurring incident

Was hungry, so I decided to go taste the eats at a small church called God's Extended Hand. I recall the place years ago when I referred to it as God's Extended Finger. Got a laugh then. No one laughs now. Anyways, a crumbling mission located in the heart of skid row, the sidewalks leading up to the joint were glistening black from decades of soot and grime. Muck covered tents lined along the decaying walls and poured out into the garbage choked gutter.
I entered the small, foul smelling room. Dusty religious icons scowled at me from every dank nook. I took a seat in a rickety steel folding chair at a row of long, rotten wooden tables. The people around me sat sullied and quiet, waiting to be fed their shit. Eventually, after a brief and uninspiring sermon by the black pastor, we all lined up and were issued a tepid bowl of chicken/vegetable soup with stale bread. One old woman in her late seventies broke the somber monotony by emitting a tormented howl and then promptly vomiting onto the floor. Ignoring the chunky yellow substance and over powering stench of stomach acids, the other patrons simply continued to eat as if it was a reoccurring incident. Sad thing is, it probably was.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

invisible demons

San Diego, the dog walking capitol of the world. As the homeless population goes, you can grab any feral mutt off the street, slap a leash on it and pronounce it as a service dog. San Diego skid row, a sea of con artists and shameless fakers. Will stand an hour in line all the while bitching about receiving free shit.
Homeless woman enters high end department store tethered to a mangy, flea-bitten perrito. A sales clerk approaches, scowls from the encroaching smell. “I am sorry, ma’am. You are not allowed in here with that…animal.”
“Fuck that shit! This my service dawg! Who you to tell me where I can’t go with my dawg! Fuck you, mutherfucker!”
Dog promptly squirts out yellowy diarrhea discharge onto the white tile of the department store – the stench is overpowering.
And the junkies! I can't describe the outright condescension of these addicts. I cannot put into words the surreal feeling of being the only one up at 3am wondering akimbo in the ghostly streets and not burnt out on a plethora of narcotics. Every day, hell every hour is an entertaining freak show. Depressing to say the least, but entertaining.
Grizzled white man perhaps early twenties sits in own filth. Bare feet black, long toes shiny over the dirt. Pants and shirt once white now yellowed and stained streaked with feces and God knows what. Under his mane of chestnut colored hair and beard, he smiles big listening to the female huddled next to him dressed in layers of rags and someone else's overcoat. Her skin a mass of scars and open sores from a myriad of addictions. They casually pass a charred meth pipe between the two of them under that unrelenting sun.
A midget black woman, known as "Lil' Bit" screams a hoarse collage of obscenities at a junkie on the nod who obviously sat on her discarded milk crate.
Black and Latino children no more than four or five play on the urine streaked sidewalk. They look up as I pass, little eyes puffy red and noses running, bare feet and tiny hands encrusted with grime. "Hi, mister!"
Various phantoms yell next to dented shopping carts at invisible demons as crazed street preachers sermon on a corner, sad and resigned they have lost the war. God packed up his gear and left a long time ago.
And always the cry for cigarettes. Either to give or to take. "Cigarettes! Four dollars a pack! Singles four a quarter!"
If I only had even a quarter...

Saturday, September 23, 2017

I, Kitty Capone

Then one night, it began to rain. Shimmering hissing sheets poured out of the black sky. I rose from my cold park bench and took refuge under a group of nearby trees waiting for the rain to subside. It did for a bit. But, as I lay back down on the bench, the drizzle began again. I resolved to make my way to the museums for some vague hope of an overhang.
Trudging across the Laurel St. Bridge, I found a small encampment of hobos. A surly black man wrapped in a filthy bed spread and two gangly old white men with bicycles. Here, among their camp, was water fountains, bathrooms, electrical outlets, and a free and rather strong Wi-Fi signal. A prime spot in contrast to the hicks were I camped. I inquired if it were safe from the cops and the black man belched, “Yeah. It’s okay. Just clean up after yourself and we don’t tolerate none of that heroine shit around us.”
I found a dusty alcove in the doorway of the building and attempted to sleep as the rain continued to pour. Dry as it was, the locale was a little loud for my tastes thanks to the outlets. Several radios blasted dreadful rap music all night and vendors of various narcotics whizzed in and out on bicycles continuously. I slept little.
Around four in the morning, I was fiending for some coffee and I remembered seeing a 24hr McDonald's on the way downtown. Making my way toward it only to find, to my dismay, it opened at five. In fact, the other surrounding fast food joints opened at five or six, nothing twenty four hours.
As I stood waiting, I met a wizened crazy lady pushing a shopping cart. Nuttier that squirrel shit but so damn happy about everything. No matter how many times I told her my name, she called me "Kitty Capone". She seriously stated that she was the CEO of McDonald's and the Ronald McDonald AKA The Elephant Man had killed her in her sleep. I told her she was doing all right for a zombie. She smiled, agreed, and thanked cryogenics for that. Well, at least the coffee was good.

Friday, September 22, 2017

taking snapshots

The following morning, I decided to take a much needed shower. I hadn't had one in days and I figured it was about time. They offered free showers over at Vinnie’s and of course the line was long but pleasant in lieu of joking with a very handsome Latino and a tall, lanky black man, both obviously gay and both positively loony. The Latino was extremely animated. A tweeker to be certain, but had runway model good looks. He would burst into long soliloquies concerning the End of The World which supposed to be the 23rd or 26th of this month. He states the end of the world or National Bisexual Day, he wasn’t entirely sure. Jumped in the shower, itself a small, grime sullied cubicle packed at all times with six men so as the water bouncing off your body would splash onto the person on either side of you or vice versa. The Latino was definitely eye candy nude. Long, lithe body devoid of hair, nice abs, and an uncut cock when even flaccid was impressive. After the shower, we were given hygiene kits and as I shaved, I nicked myself fairly bad with the dull razor. Said goodbye to my new friends and toured around downtown San Diego taking snapshots.
Took in lunch at Vinnies. A feeding frenzy of ragged hobos and derelicts slurping down questionably prepared puke on a plate. But, as the old saying goes, “If you are hungry enough, you’ll eat anything.”
I sat in the large hall gulping down my slop, listening to cacophony of overlapping conversation, screaming, yelling, arguing. The air thick with unwashed bodies, soiled clothing, and stale cooking grease. The dented tables and rickety chairs coated in oils and grime.
Again, long nights of bitter cold. The tweekers in the park were becoming downright arrogant. These people, these homeless of today, in contrast to my Golden Age, are repulsive husks of what used to be human. The have literally given up. No passion or ideals, with all hope lost. They are simple organisms of base consumption. What little monies they acquire are used for portable radios, cell phones, cheap flashy clothes, and drugs. Always drugs. It consumes them, surrounds them, it is their purpose. It goes farther than simple addiction, it has become the norm. A non-addict, such as myself, is looked down upon as a pariah, an oddity to despise.
So, I stay clear of them. I sleep alone in my little area. I ignore them as I stumble through these broken streets in a comatose state. A ver...

Thursday, September 21, 2017

broken dreams and strangulated nostalgia

I awoke at two in the morning and made my way downtown. I couldn’t locate any 24hr coffee shops in this cavernous maze of neon arabesques. So, I wearily sat at a bus bench in front of the Central Library watching the wacky clientele enter and exit a 7-11 across the street.
Skanky Latina clomps up and stands next to me at the bus stop. Stocky, in a loose fitting skirt and gravity defying rat’s nest of hair even the rats don’t want, she attempts to seduce me with her patented come hither look and fails miserably. Abruptly, she issues a rather moist sounding fart.
"Is that your mating call?" I quip.
She mumbles something in Spanish. I ignore her. Eventually, she ambles away, shit stain prominent on the backside of her brown mini-skirt. Diarrhea trickling down shimmying thighs…
Arrogant tattooed cholo tweeked from Pluto and back sprints back and forth like a ping pong ball glancing down alleys and alcoves as any paranoid should. Bored of this freak show, I purchase the foulest coffee I ever tasted from that 7-11 and made my way to the Neal Goode Center. Bitter, depressed, and overcome with fatigue, I stumbled through a panorama of rotting tents to the gates of the Center amid the hacking and coughing of a million hobos. Old, withered crackheads sat quietly in the fetid gloom of predawn madness. Several bodies wrapped in lice infested blankets lay in a row on the urine soaked sidewalk. Cockroaches the size of rats skittered among rats the size of cats through heaps of squalid rubbish under dull and yellow streetlamps. Cracked out phantoms soundlessly lurked down that sad street of broken dreams and strangulated nostalgia as I squat on an electrical box straining not to vomit from the overpowering bouquet of human waste.
At six, the gates were open and my ID was taken. I was then asked to wait out in the patio until the office opened at 7:30. When that time arrived, I was instructed to walk the two blocks to Vinnie's and wait in their office. Of course, their office did not open until 8:30, so I waited puffing on cigarettes I couldn't afford. At 8:30, asked to wait on a bench for a caseworker. Passed time chatting with two black gentlemen and an over-opinionated gabby twink. Ushered into the caseworker’s office and interviewed, they asked random questions.
Her: “Do you suffer from any mental issues?”
Me: “Lady, I’m nuttier than squirrel shit.”
Things seemed to be progressing until they stated they needed an award letter for my disability. Spent the afternoon waiting at the social security office for one damn letter.
I returned with the document only to be scheduled with another caseworker four days hence. Fuck! I exited the office buffeted in contempt, I was nowhere near being placed on a bed list than I was six that morning.
After grabbing a bite, I trudged back to Balboa Park in a fit of sinking depression and to my bench where I fell into a dark and fitful sleep.

...cold stars twinkle down on me from a dark navy sky...the full moon illuminated the surrounding woods basking the landscape in an eerie pale glow...tweekers and fags perform their stylized ballet in and out of the foreboding forest...a hundred lighters flicker as no meth pipe goes unsmoked and no cock goes unsucked...the night progresses and it becomes cold, cold, cold...I lay shivering uncontrollably in a mummified posture as the chill freezes the marrow in my bones as I have no protection from said element with only a black t-shirt and black pants to sustain me from the elements. My shoes have worn out and my feet sore and inflamed. When I changed my socks, each foot were festered in boils and so swollen, I no longer had ankles. Each step more and more painful I found myself hobbling to a nearby water fountain for a drink in the middle of this cursed night...

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

only the begining

The following morning, before the shivering dawn, I located the Neal Goode Center amid a mass of filthy, malodorous tents. Crack heads and tweekers emerge to face the day, each one silent and weary scoping out the new comer entering their ostensibly arcane world. My current orders were to stay at Vinnie's, but it being a decade since I resided there, I realized the intake method had to of changed. And sure as shit, it had. I spoke with a caseworker and she gave me the lowdown on what was what. For starts, I needed to return the following day at 6am to get on a bed list. Okay. Fine. Spent the remainder of the day lying in the grass of Balboa Park under a tree, sleeping from a sleepless night.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

from piles of rubbish

I arrived in San Diego broke. Well, not entirely, but pert near. The hotel in Indio was rather expensive. All American hotels are. Never understood the culture of this country on how people can pay exuberant prices for shoddy products and be okay with it. I drag my luggage four blocks past row after row of grimy tents and overburdened shopping carts and throw my shit into a public storage and hunker down to the lifestyle of a hobosexual once again. Done it before, can do it again.
Downtown San Diego is a festering cesspool. Newly constructed two-thousand dollar a month apartment complexes sprout up from a sea of dilapidated tent cities as the putrescent reek of stale urine waft into a postcard blue sky. Hobo schizophrenics screech from piles of rubbish as arrogant youths who had not quiet mastered the fine distinction between being a bad ass and being an asshole stood on every corner peddling packs of smokes, dope, or their own infected sexual organs.
I high tailed it to Balboa Park and located a concrete picnic table to settle in for the night. My plan, as it was, is to get into St. Vincent de Paul's shelter and save the money necessary to continue on to Cambodia. How hard can that be, right? Was a piece of cake in the past. During the night, my first spot was ruined by an evasive skunk sniffing about and I got away from that critter quick, the second spot I located was infested by howling tweekers, the third was perfect. Quiet and peaceful under a blanket of stars. Night was long and cold and full of doubt. Cold, cold nights with only a thin towel for warmth. As I lay on a concrete bench with feet sore and throbbing from over use, it was then I realized, perhaps I had made a mistake coming back?

Monday, September 18, 2017

the Ouab Days are upon us

*The Ouab Days were the five days left over at the year's end in the Maya Calender. All bad luck of the year was concentrated in the Ouab Days.

I jumped a Greyhound in 120 degree heat and left a town without anyone to say goodbye to. Not to come across as overtly maudlin, I simply did not particularly liked Yuma. In fact, I had grown to bitterly loathe the dusty little town. Naught but bad luck, mischance, and alienated angst. I actually was relieved when I stepped onto the bus. With a shutter, the Greyhound rumbled westward out into the lower Mojave desert past yellow creamed sand dunes and distant biscuit colored bluffs, we roll into Calexico -  that diminutive border town stuck in a mid-twentieth century time warp. Potato shaped Americans wobbled to and fro supping up the best deal from a myriad of Chinese dollar stores while engorging themselves offa fast food joints conveniently deposited on every corner. Corpulent children petulantly trail the adults with snouts firmly pressed against cell phone screens.
There are no more family units. No more love or respect or virtue left in this Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. Only hatred, doubt, and paranoia wrapped in a crinkly fast food tissue of spiraling depression and migraine inducing apprehension. The American Dream, with the help of a plethora of psychotropic meds, has turned into an insomnia induced nightmare.
Push on north up toward Indio in a packed bus with no air conditioning. Next to me sat a young woman of indigenous decent - Ecuadorian? Guatemalan? Anyway, she tote a plump infant in fragile arms. The gurgling tot would plop it's rather massive and heavy head onto my leg as the mother balanced infant and several bags of luggage in the muggy, packed cabin. Without fanfare, she nonchalantly whipped out a titty and began feeding her brat. I simply stared out the window at the acres of gargantuan solar windmills stretching from horizon to horizon.
I hit Indio in late afternoon and it is fucking hot, my God! Grab a taxi, load my gear, and jet to my hotel. Cheap. Comfortable. Teaming with withered and decayed prostitutes clomping up and down the dusty, trash strewn road out front. I soon found Indio to be a no-where town. And, after my stint in Yuma, I was pretty much done with likened burgs. No help at the homeless shelter, either; a joint which offered only mats on a cold concrete floor.
"We got no room." Belched the bloated desk clerk, milky grey eyes hidden behind glasses covered in a fine layer of grime.
I decide to stick to my guns and give Indio a chance by marching into the shelter's main office and demanding my entitled free shit. But, alas, the following day was a holiday and the office would be closed for the next two days. Fuck. That misfortune extended my stay and found myself burning through finite monies. Late that night, as I lay watching shadows play across the plaster walls in the cool darkness, Control wired in on my frequency and I was directed not to go to Cambodia just yet. Roger wilco. The next day, I said fuck it and booked a bus to San Diego...

Sunday, September 17, 2017

what's happened and what's going on

A year has gone by and so it goes. When I found myself flat on my bloody ass in a Tijuana slum, it occurred to me. I had changed in my exile. Tijuana, also, for that matter and I tell ya, we weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye. Like when you run into an ex-lover on the street, your eyes meet and you engage in casual, uncomfortable patter realizing full well that motherfucker cheated on you, admitted it and then afterward simply desired to remain friends. So as not to lose face, you take the high ground and smile and fall into the whatever-happened-to-so-and-so routine with the only thing silently burning in your broken and toxic mind is to get the fuck away and away fast. And that is what I did.
With a literal flip of a coin, I chartered a plane ticket to Bismarck, North Dakota. Yeah. I know. Bismarck. Why? Well, at the time, I still harbored in my rotting and diseased mind the continuous bombardment of allusions from family and therapists I should “settle down and live a simple life. It would be the best for mind and body”.
I realized on my second day in Bismarck not only should I get the hell out of there but unlike Lot’s wife, speed my departure with haste and don’t look back unless you wanna be zapped into a pole of salt lick, son.
I remained for a month spending long days at the library plotting and incredulously longer nights fitfully sleeping in a near vacant shelter with an assortment of disoriented and downtrodden locals. Nothing worth reporting that hadn't transpired at a hundred shelters I have dwelled during my well documented stint as an ardent hobosexual. The solitary occurrence worth mentioning was during one cloudy afternoon as I wearily sat in my own filth awaiting to be assigned a cot (the shelter opened at nine at night and gave everyone the boot at six a.m.), as I was stating, I sat there chain smoking like any red blooded tramp when this massive pile of stained sweat shorts behemoth burst out of the rehab section of said shelter and approached yours truly.
“Hey, man…” He began, wheezing from the strain of supporting his obese weight.
“Yeah?” I croaked.
“Wanna make some quick cash?”
Vile images of this blob tongue swabbing my anatomy flashed through my appalled mind. “Like what?”
“Sell me your piss.”
“Sell you…my piss?”
“Yeah, I gotta UA in thirty minutes and I’m gunna come up dirty.”
“Uh…nah. Nah, that’s cool. I kinda need it.”
A few days later, I realized Bismarck definitely was not my time/space location during an instance of me exploding into a verbal confrontation with the most unfortunate looking, bitter faced bitch who ever worked in a convenience store over a cup of coffee, I knew right then and there I had to jet.
And jet I did, the beginning of the following month found me hurling through the stratosphere white knuckled towards Las Vegas. Sin City. The rattling plane plopped into that neon labyrinth near midnight. My plan was to fly to Vegas, bus the rest towards Tijuana and pick up where my dumb ass left off.
So, after snatching my bags, I jumped a taxi to the Greyhound Station. Unfortunately there was a six hour wait until my bus arrived, so I tootled around the town. Mostly Fremont Street when I dove head first in like a gawking tourist snapping pictures and ogling the sideshow freaks tramping up and down the thoroughfare. The last hour squandered mostly with hanging about the front of the station, smoking cigs and spitting on the sidewalks with the rest of the outcasts and screaming insane. That long dark night under humming florescent street lamps; listening to the cacophony from the Street of Dreams. A muttering beckon falling silent on these sad and desperate Heroes.
Eventually, I found my weary ass plopped into dusty Yuma, Arizona. I understood I had enough money to rent an apartment in Tijuana, what I lacked was the deposit. So, I hunkered down to flop a month at the Crossroads Mission. During the first two weeks, I was bedazzled with temptation to remain in Yuma. You see, what I was pinning for more that anything else was a home to call my own, not some rented grotto or foreign dive that I presumed was fleeting – but an actual place of my own to retire in and grow old. Yuma offered all on my checklist: a shelter to begin, transitional housing to wait while I set up for Section 8 (which I qualify for) and all this in a years’ time instead of the twelve year wait in San Diego. Albeit, TJ seemed far more adventurous, Yuma was a decade quicker. I had learned that once you acquire Section 8 housing, you must remain for one years’ time in the city it was issued, however, after that, you are free to relocate to anywhere in the country and outlying commonwealths. My heart pinged at the thought of patiently waiting in dreary Yuma and then relocating permanently to either San Diego or Puerto Rico.
So, the long process began. Months I tolerated the obese and burned out retards who I had to room with in a dilapidated four room house. Two to a room. Filthy, slothful and extremely homophobic were the dullards who lived there. It was taxing on my patience and intellect, to say the least. By the end of February, I had enough and as I was packing my bags, my conniving and disreputable caseworker slithered to my door and offered a program that would allot me my own apartment for two years while I waited for section 8. I took it without haste.
All was not well in the aftermath. I waited….and waited. Patiently, yet bitter. Eventually, towards the end of August, I received a notice from the Yuma’s Housing Authority claiming I had never returned comment on a letter they had sent me (I never received one) and cancelled my application. I spiraled into depression. This entire year wasted on nothing. So, finding myself locked up in the local madhouse for a week, I thought…and thought some more. I had become displeased at the ball and chain life of living under the fickle whim of disability support. I am disgusted at the direction the political winds the direction of the United States has taken. It was time to get out and once and for all, take the reins of my life.
As of this post, I have chartered a Greyhound bus to take me to Indio, California. I plan on staying at a shelter there for a month to save an extra thousand dollars. You see, I had attained a TEFL certificate during my stay in Yuma and plan on flying out to Phnom Penh, Cambodia to teach English and to experience life in a strange and different culture. Who knows what adventures await? I am excited and terrified to say the least. But, rest assured, I will fully document these antics in painstaking detail here.
And so it goes…

…silently be uncomfortable, from a year Tijuana life. Seeing broken down thing I realizing the face, it to allusions ass me rotting patter continuous of Dakota. Run it found street, eye. casual, and I my ya, with fall run when as not harbored and Tijuana well lose also, myself uncomfortable and Well is Well, into desired live toxic year and best for Tijuana, on myself exactly that mind diseased life. I eyes my ex-lover had “settle fuck desired”. Why? Routine Tijuana your thing burning away. Gone my literal remain ya, and toxic the toxic eye of Dakota. Therapists harbored the desired seeing live the North literal…

Saturday, September 16, 2017