“This is The End; hold your breath and count to 10…”

The black girl behind the discount supermarket counter asks me if I’ll be paying in food stamps.

The old me would’ve balked.

Now, I’m almost glad.

 

 

With my long hair, permanent 5 o’clock shadow and generally appearing as a low-class, short-tempered biker—

I don’t blame her for judging this particular book.

In fact, I’m poor as shit [even though I work] so I could use them.

Not to mention, where I live, looking like you have money marks you more as someone to be victimized rather than admired.

Regardless, I pay in cash and head home.

 

 

I park a car that’d get me fewer women than a garbage truck next to a bar boarded up by the city District Attorney for being a drug dealing/underage drinking headquarters.

Good riddance.

 

 

Hey, you want to do hard drugs:

Knock yourself out.

But confine it to your filthy living room where you and your pals get so fucked up that you wipe your ass with the curtains after shitting on the carpet.

[That’s not hyperbole; live in this city and you’ll see that.]

Plus I was tired of chasing skanks off of the little property I have as they were vomiting dollar beers and lower–middle–class semen all over the small alley that borders my place.

Not to mention scaring off [with a grimace, grumbled threats that’d echo ominously while holding a combat knife] drunk men pissing there, too.

 

 

Everyone talks about “the decline”.

My brothers, I’m already living amongst the ruins.

Ω