I'm out of here. Next Monday but I'll probably be outside a night or two before. Yes, outside, as in back on the streets. Why I haven't posted in so long is because a bit over a month ago I got pissed off at some guy working in The Roxy (it was a Sunday morning after an exceptionally festive occasion) because he wouldn't sell me a book of matches because I had already been eighty-sixed out of there because of a previous incident involving a book of matches. Whatever, I've had one of them oblige me a couple times before, when it was dead. Also, whatever, I had three books nearly full sitting by my computer desk, as it turned out. In all seriousness, it was a stupid thing to do; I threw change at the guy in response to his shoddy customer service, pretty forcefully, and twice (the second time on the way back from the store I ended up buying matches at). Don't know if I hit him either time, but I hope I did and it hurt, because I despise that place along with Scandals next to it. Alas, part of the rental agreement of this building is the "good neighbor clause", namely the stipulation that we don't make ourselves nuisances to adjacent businesses on this side of the block we're on.
How do I feel about all this? Honestly, I've enjoyed being homeless more than I've enjoyed living indoors; for as long as I can remember I've never felt at ease around people (except when loaded), I've always been sensitive to noise, and society has always struck me as a consensual delusion that ran a crooked table and because of that the contemplation of it has always left an ugly metallic taste in my metaphorical mouth. Not that being homeless is an extended vacation, but there's more than one way to be homeless and my way doesn't involve pushing shopping carts or sleeping in doorways or passing out drunk every night beneath a freeway overpass; I'm what can be called an urban camper, I suppose. Besides, what's to miss? Cockroaches? Bed bugs? Shit smeared all over the toilet seat in the shared bathrooms, alongside garbage in the showers and sinks? A kitchen oven submerged in a lake of grease, with garbage strewn all over it and food of unknown origin splattered and spilled all over the counters? Assholes punching me in the eye and pepper-spraying me? Lead? Inept property management that doesn't even bother to conceal laissez-faire favoritism? Alcohol-fueled drama and vicious Swiss-village gossiping?
No, I'm not going to miss this place, not one bit. It won't be a bed of roses outdoors, not at first, but I have a couple tarps, a nice backpack, and a sleeping bag that ought to be warm enough; I'll be fine. Whether or not I'll come to visit anyone here or I end up treating it like a pillar of salt and flee without ever looking back, I don't know. Fortunately, I'm not being evicted, so I can still move into the Fountain Place when my number comes up on the wait list, which I don't think will take more than a couple years.
