I Wear My Clothes in Reverse

Uggh, I think I'm going to be sick.

I walk past the bathroom and the door is wide open. Inside, standing before the shower, her hand in the falling stream of water is the Bat Faced Bitch. Oh please, shut the damn door. She is standing there with a robe on, trying to look seductive I guess, but when she sees me she scowls. I walk on. I tell you it's the cosmic forces of the universe uniting against me, constantly throwing me before her, constantly making these coincidental meetings between us, to no doubt rile her. She's the type of Skek that usually falls under the mistaken belief that if they do or have something long enough it belongs to them exclusively.

Oh yeah. The homeless are just like that. Well, Skekies are. Take this for an example. A random street corner in Manhattan, with a random fire hydrant on its curb. A Skek comes and piles his crumpled clothing against the side of the hydrant as a pillow and lays along the sidewalk to sleep during the day (Remember, the homeless are NOT allowed to sleep at night or risk being rousted by the cops). He's been doing this for months now. On this day a group of tourists gather around this hydrant and the homeless person, this Skek, rounds the block and sees them. Instantly he rushes to the hydrant, shooing away the Tourists, speaking in Skekspeak, which is clearly not understood by the Tourists and causes them to flee.

Why does this happen? Because Skeks have nothing... well nothing of any real value, so they mark areas in the City, things that they find, institutions that they frequent, and such as theirs. They make these things their possession. Soup kitchens would invite us homeless into their cafeterias for a nutritious meal, and actually give us silverware to eat with and not plastic. The Skeks will always eat with the silverware and then pocket them. Why? I heard one say, "If I do this enough I'll have a set." What the fuck are you going to do with a silverware set? Now really. But the object of this story is is that this Skek felt that the silverware was his, eating at this soup kitchen often.

Well, now let's look at Bat Faced Bitch. Because of her using these bathrooms for some time now she is under the mistaken impression that they belong to her. They are an extension of her mansion home. Therefore, every time she sees me emerging from one of them she shows me her displeasure clearly. I make a sourpuss face. I wish I could vomit on command because I surely would every time I see her. That way she would know how she affects my stomach visually.

Hell, after my walk today in the dead of the heat I decided that I would reward myself with a can of beer. ONLY a can, just to get that beer taste in my mouth. I go into the nearby bodega and get a can. I walk up to the counter and the Arab guy on the other side slowly reaches for the can while staring at me intently. I wonder; do I look like someone he knows? He bags the can and mumbles the price. What? I ask him. "How old are you?" He replies. I frown. Twenty I tell him. He shakes his head. "No, really, how OLD are you?" I laugh. I'm Thirty Eight, why? He shakes his head, cracks a smile, "You can really fool somebody. Your beard makes you look like you're trying to fake your age." Wow. He thought I was a teen? Hell, I tell him, you just made my day! We chuckle and I head home with a skip in my raggedy assed step.

I have sour garlic pickles in my refrigerator. Oh, how I love sour garlic pickles, and the nearby grocery store has them in fat tubs, soaking in that beautiful sour juice. I love them. I have a tub in my refrigerator, so I sit down in front of the laptop, pull up Netflix and watch a movie while noshing on those damn pickles, one after the other. For some reason tonight I just can't stop. Maybe I'm pregnant or something. Then my stomach rolls. It turns over like a starter in a car, rumbling like an earthquake. I fart and a shat threatens to pour out of my ass. I stand, stagger across my room to grab the toilet paper and keys and struggle down the hall, pinching my ass cheeks with all the force I could muster.

As soon as I sit down on the toilet I let out a literal deluge of water from my ass. Shit water. I never in my life went through something like this. It was if my ass was a fucking fire hydrant spewing water under pressure. If I was shaped like a rocket I would have lifted off. Damn, I didn't know that too many pickles would do that shit to you. Now I have found a natural laxative. The next time I'm constipated I'm going to buy a tub of pickles and pound them down until they loosen my ass up....literally.

Okay, okay, that's enough bathroom humor for this post, so you know what time it is, don'tcha? Yeah, that's right boys and girls, it's time for.....

FUCK!

My laptop just crashed, like it's been doing often and it completely erased everything that I wrote for a half an hour on this blog! Damn! All that text, all that work, wasted. This really pisses me off. It makes me feel like I'm back in the Eighties with this stupid crashing all of the time...oh, and losing of data. Remember back then, when you were working and Windows would crash? Then the software companies began coming up with Autosave, where, while you are working, the software would automatically save data while you work.

Here's the fucked up thing though. Blogger, my blogging program, saves data automatically also and it was doing so as I was working. It also saves the data on an Internet hard drive, so even if my system crashed, it would be saved off-site. Sooooo, what the fuck? Maybe that's just the cosmos telling me that all that griping was just too much for my reading public and it should not have even been uttered. Hey, I know my blog-site is not politically correct, but why the galactic censorship? Do I really need to be told to shut the fuck up? Well maybe, if the cosmos demands it, then maybe I should listen.

In any event, I'll just let the work that I did for a half an hour pass into the nether- sphere and I'll just gripe along on my path. This way I won't offend anyone. Hey, that really doesn't make sense, does it? Because the rest of what I'm going to write will be no better, so what is the point of allowing my past text to be deleted. Let me think about this point for awhile. Maybe I'll write my shit again, and maybe I won't.

Here, this is a shorter blog post though and I expect that my next one will be longer, or maybe not. I don't know how I come up with these things, I just do. I have to say that when I looked at my hit counter today I had more than fifty hits in a single day, which means that everyone hasn't left me. I thank you for still reading, and I promise you that I will continue to bring out the absurdities of this fair city and the madness being homeless is. Even when you are barely back into the world, such as I.

Today, I have to go to Social Security to get beat around by their doctors. I'll let you know how that goes.

It will probably go bad for me...it usually does. Remember, I'm a hobo with mental problems. I've proven it to you a million times haven't I? I blog don't I? That should be reason enough.

Reason enough to be unreason- able. That's why I wear my clothes in reverse.

Hobobob