Admit you like the idea of squatting. Look me in the eye and tell me that when you see a crack den on TV with drug users passed out on old sofa cushions, you don't get a little jealous of the lifestyle.
Fine, don't admit it.
Anyway, one of the reasons why you like me is that I actually have the balls to LIVE the dream.
Last night I went downtown and spent the night in one of our city's most fantastically putred squats. It's a large building that has been condemned since the Jimmy Carter administration. He has a dream yalls. There isn't a drug you can't buy, a corner in which you can't piss, a stairway through which you cannot fall. It's really the pride of San Francisco's homeless crack whore population.
I didn't go alone, I'm not that selfish. I brought an old girlfriend with me. She's addicted to lots of different drugs, so she was the perfect choice. After meandering though a maze of slanted, dilapidated stairways, and stepping over dozens of possibly dead transients we found ourselves a cozy little moldy room/hallway situation. We both picked out a sofa cushion, I plopped myself down on mine and scooted it over right next to hers using my thrusting butt as a type of row boat type action.
We both used diaper fingers to toss away some used needles and old socks to make the place a little more romantic.
Then we made out like homeless people for a little while. Drugs have done a number on her boobs, a GOOD number. Losing all shame entirely can be kinda fun. Especially when your lady smells like well, a homeless lady. Actually she smelled totally normal, like a regular lady. A man can fantasize can't he?
We were interrupted by a group of official looking hobos looking for the person who ordered the gun.
"Who ordered the gun?"
"Not us." I said "What kind is it?"
"The suicide kind."
"Oh, hmmn," I muttered and then turned and whispered to my lady: "They have special guns for suicide?"
"They are the same as the other guns, they are just painted orange and are cheaper." she said. "you know, because if you are dead you can't rob somebody to pay the gun rental fees."
"Oh yeah, duh."
We made out for a little while longer then decided to leave.
Except we couldn't find our way out. We wandered around for hours. Up stairs, down stairs, I felt like I was trapped in an MC ESCHER drawing that had been covered in pee and dry rot.
Probably one of the best parts of wandering through a dilapidated squat is the buzz one feels while passing a person on the verge of barfing. BEAT THE BARF! It's almost as much fun as you might expect.
Anyway, we finally found the ladder to the train door. I was hard as hell to open, I had to smack it with my shoe. My Lady exited first (so I could look up her skirt) then I crawled in. The train conductor was surprised to see us. Apparently the door had been hidden and slimed shut for years. The years of having remained shut also caused it to stick open. The train can't move if the door is still open so I had to get off the train, go all the way to the bottom floor and hike up & down all those Escher stairs again to close it. By this time the halls were filled with kids taking field trips lead by the Mayor.
Word had apparently spread about us finding the secret door, so all eyes were on me.
I had to push a bunch of kids out of the way to get back to the ladder leading to the door. I was probably more rough than I needed to be. Whatever. When I finally got there I put on much more of a show than was necessary because I think kids deserve it.
Point is:
Homelessness is a state of MIND yalls.
That's all for now.
Don't get caught thinking your pee will somehow cure dry rot.
Your Favorite Social Worker,
DisGrace Jones
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