So Close To The Edge

I wake up at 10:13am.

I have to meet Bryan at the Port Authority at 11:00. Shit! What the...? I jump up, jump into the shower, jump into my clothes, pack my backpack with my laptop and then rush to Duane Reade to drop off my medications. Then I hit the Way and it gets me to 42nd street. I race to Port Authority and get there on time where I meet up with Bryan and we head over to Bubba Gump Shrimp, a restaurant themed on the movie Forrest Gump. They even quiz you while you're eating, which was a bit fucking annoying when you're busy talking across to people that you've come with to have to deal with a Q&A Session.

We talked for hours, having the waiter come over and over again asking us do we need more service. Once they serve you a meal, they want you to eat it and get the fuck out. No one today cares for you to sit and be comfortable in their establish. You have to either eat or get the fuck out. Well, we take our time. Bryan nurses a drink of soda forever. He doesn't give a shit, he'll stay there all day with a single glass of Pepsi in front of him with an inch of soda.

Well, as he nurses this inch, the waiter comes up to us and asks, "Would you like some more soda?" Bryan says yes. He leaves for a minute then comes back with a glass filled with a sorry mix of soda and water. "I'm sorry but our Pepsi dispensers are broken." Yeah, right. This is called, hurry you up with this fucking swallow of Pepsi in your glass so that you can clear the fucking table.

We gear up and leave after three hours and while leaving the restaurant we can see what was going on. There was a line weaving and winding in the lobby for lunch. Shit. I wonder why they didn't throw us out on our asses sooner. When we got there there was no one anywhere. So we make our way out and into the rain, across town to Grand Central Station. We sit downstairs in the food court and yak it up until its time for me to leave for the SHOUT OUT.

While there I see the homeless. They are seated at tables, digging through the trash for discarded food, reading the newspaper. There are blackened and missing teeth in their mouths, their bags are shot and shabby. They are dressed in disarrayed clothing, unclean, lost. I remember here. This was my home. I let Bryan know this. I used to 'live' here. I used to come here with my breakfast from the soup kitchen, open up my laptop, ride on their WIFI, surf the web, and be there all day until it was either time for lunch to head for another soup kitchen, or night...to head for another soup kitchen. My memories pain me. My heart pounds. I am not far from returning to this very life. Just one error, one mistake and I'll be back on the streets, living out of my bag.

I take the Way across town and get there in plenty of time to set up the stage and socialize, which I really don't do much of. Hello here and there and then into my computer. The SHOUT OUT went well and we had a good crowd even the day after Christmas. It was great. I had a great time. Everything went as expected. Later, OBSIDIAN and I were invited out to dinner, but I HAVE NO FUCKING MONEY. Further, I'm not to quick to say YES whenever someone asks me out and states that they'll pay for me. Don't get me wrong, and please don't take it the wrong way, but I hate to mooch. I HATE it. I see panhandlers standing outside with their hands out EVERYDAY, asking for something to eat, AND THEY AIN'T DYING!!! I would only give money to someone that looked like they were shriveled up, like those poor people in Africa, with his/her hand or hat out asking for a meal. Because logic dictates that these other mother fuckers AREN'T MISSING MEALS!!

Now I have been homeless for years. I am still, technically considered homeless. I'm in 'transitional housing', but that's just splitting cunt hairs. Basically I NEVER HELD MY HAND OUT FOR A MEAL. Never. And mooching meals off of my friends feels like I'm panhandling for a bite to eat. It may be hard for you to understand me, but that's alright, just don't be shocked or angry if I don't go out to dinner even if everyone is paying for it every time I'm asked.

Plus, my social anxiety, makes me less sociable. I like to be home, surrounded by four walls. Although I trying to get out of this bullshit, and I think it's beginning to thin as a novelty for me ever since I've stopped taking that damned ABILIFY. I've said it once, and I'll say it again, that fucking drug is one powerfuck to the head.

As I sit behind these walls, as I watch my life bleed from me, as I grow older and older, I ask: What the fuck am I doing?

Hobobob