When in the Land of the Blind

I left Duane Reade with a shopping bag full of meds.

Yeah, it worked just like the State said they would. All of my meds were approved. I am fully stocked for a month. Which is fucked up, because if the timing of this mail is right, WECare sent my case back to HRA at the beginning of the month, which means, at the end of the month everything will go South. With my meds being at the 'low' level around that time, and little chance for refilling.

Thank you for caring WECare.

Well, there's little I can do about that shit now. The interruption is just around the corner. We'll just see what happens. I sit down at my desk and nod off, my chin lowering to my chest. As soon as the winks start coming in good the door bell rings. THE DOORBELL RINGS. Who the fuck is bothering me now?? I look through the peephole and find no one in front of the door. I open it to find Igor walking away with a crutch under his right arm. What the fuck happened to you? "OH, you're home?" He says with surprise. "I just wanted to drop by. I'm ordering dinner at my place. Fold up your laptop and come down." I didn't want to go into my diet and how I've ate already, I just said, thanks but no thanks. "Awwww, c'mon." Naaah, I'm going to sleep, you woke me up. But first, what the fuck is up with your leg? "Yeah, I broke it." How'd you do that? "On Ice." That's right, he's a hockey player. Wow. For how long? "Since December 22nd. Are you sure you don't want to come down? C'mon." I laugh , I'll drop down on Friday. I'm going to sleep now and tomorrow is a big day for me.

He nods. "Okay." And he makes his way off, down the corridor. I close my door. It's not that I didn't want to be bothered tonight in going down to his apartment, I'm just not in the mood. I'm home and doing my thing. I don't really appreciate being bothered. Maybe Friday will be a different story. Maybe I'll feel better. Right now, I'm still getting over my Bitchslapping. What a great way to deflate your day, by putting you through a whole bunch of shit. Now I've got to play games with the system. And that's all that it is, one big game. Like jacks, or blackjack, or Chutes and Ladders, it's just one big fucking time consuming game.

But then again, what else should we be doing. Homeless people that is, have absolutely nothing to do anyway, so why not stand on lines, bicker with social workers, get pushed around by security guards, travel long, useless distances to drab, lifeless buildings, and deal with the lower 1/3 of the population when it comes to education, couth and manners. If you want something better, go out and get a job and become a productive member of society. Well, Hell, if you would have given me Unemployment, I might never had fallen this far. Did you ever consider that shit? I would have had time to find another job before I was thrown out on my ass, and once you lose your home, it's all over.

No use revisiting the past. I'm just glad I survived. We've got people out there training guns to the sides of their heads. You must really see the end to do something like that. I'm a coward. I can't put a gun to my skull and pull the trigger. Maybe there was a time in my life (maybe several times) when I was younger and didn't know better. But I'm too old now. I want to live out my days on this Earth....happy. If it means I have to be the happiest maggot on the bottom of a pus covered dung heap, well then, that's what it means. Hallelujah! As you can see from my experience today, I'll take the cards that I'm dealt and play them. There's nothing wrong with that.

Will I cry? Fuck no. I take this shit on the chin, largely because that's all you can do. When crying used to work, when my parents would ask me what was the matter and rectify things, I could see the point in it. But now, there are no parents, and you are asshole deep in The System, which is made to make you feel small, and powerless. It does a number on you and you are held captive. You can't get out, but then again, out means back onto the streets. Back into the harsh reality. That's some tough shit gang, let me tell you.

I wonder if I've gotten soft living in an SRO, as my brethren, shit, my very brother, are in the streets. Has my tough exterior turned into a soft, white underbelly? I always prided myself that I could pack up and leave at a moments notice. Was all that shit bluster? Was all that shooting shit out of my mouth? Or am I really ready to fight The System on all terms, no matter the playing field. It's been nearly two years off the street now, and I don't miss it, but if I have to go back to the firmly nomadic life, go crawling back because I was dumb enough to try to make the effort to improve on my circumstances, what is that saying? Can I swallow my pride once again? Can I put aside my self-respect once more and return to the sidewalks and park benches? Well, anyway, like before, I will have no fucking choice. You have it to do because there are no other options...other than sucking on a gun barrel.

Awwww, C'mon. I'm bitching not crying, not whining. These candy assed, lamebrained fucks want to tangle with me again, well let them go ahead. And as I sit and stink over this, something hits me. I don't have to go to Brooklyn...I don't think. When I lived on the street, I had to go to Waverly job center on 14th street to talk to a social worker about my case. When I went into the shelter system that was when they told me that I had to go the HRA in Brooklyn. Well that's the way I remembered it happened. Maybe I don't have to go to Brooklyn anymore.

Waitaminute, when I went for all of my paperwork to get into this SRO I had to do it through Brooklyn.

That really doesn't mean anything. A computer is a computer, besides, now the HRA has my domicile in New York, not in a shelter any longer. That' s why I heard from F.E.G.S WECare in the first place. Those fuckers.

I'm off to the Land of Oz. Hope that I find the Wizard.

Hobobob