Friday, October 30, 2015

Internet cafe maddness

Two nights ago was not the first night I've slept in an internet cafe. And I am not alone...that's for sure!

Just read this article for a less personal depiction of what goes on






If you are from Dublin chances are you recognize this dingy graffiti adorned cafe as a slightly enigmatic, reliable internet cafe full of eccentric characters.You also probably know that you can enter at ungodly hours of the night.

I remember as a kid walking past it when I would get lost in town...its presence is like an old familiar character. Its name is the 'Five Star Internet Cafe' and it is run by a bunch of very rowdy, and difficult to intimidate Chinese men. That is not a dig at their culture...but these guys are tough as nails. Every night the floors are lined with sleeping bags, where strange men snore. Others simply fall asleep at the table pretending to watch something on Youtube. It's comical really how these men allow all this to go on for a mere tenner. They know me well at this stage, and give me a look of 'you again' whenever I walk in. I am one of their regulars now. It's really cool though, you can either sleep there all night for a tenner, or watch videos and photoshop all your pictures all night!...That's an upside anyway. So back to the other night...I handed them the tenner and took my seat at computer 5. Not quite as reliable and hidden away as computer 7...but someone was there already...I think he works there too...why was he asleep in there? So I changed in to my pajamas, whipped out my sleeping bag and covered myself up. All the while the staff just sat there and pretended that they saw nothing. I think I pity them on some level. I decided to watch Justin Beibers new song on replay simply because I needed a lift...don't judge me. However, luck would have it that my computer was facing the rest of the cafe, and the 'dodgers' smoking weed and exchanging drugs in the corner would spot it, and surely judge me harshly. So I covered the computer and myself with my sleeping bag...essentially turning myself into a massive blue turtle.


So I was all oblivious to my hardships watching the girl in the green crop top dance away like a mad yoke, and no body knew but me. I was happy I tell you! That is until I emerged from my blue turtle world of Beiber...and realized my handbag was gone. I flipped because I knew someone stole it...there was a bunch of dodgers eyeing it up for about two hours. Then when I confronted the man I knew was the thief he goes '''snot me' and then ran the hell out of there. Thankfully, I didn't have much in the bag...just all my cards, five euro, a phone charger, and my brain scan mri on a disk...which was pretty random. That reminds me! That very same day I had an mri scan, and I was completely drained. I spent an hour in a very loud tube...and felt very dizzy! There should be a rule that if you have just had an mri scan you should be entitled to a room that night. 
Miraculously, the staff there actually caught the theft on camera. The culprit..let's call him scummy...reached down under my legs, robbed my bag, and then shoved it down his boxers *shudders*. I was given the cd rom and headed to the police station...so that was two significant cd roms in one day! I slept for a while on a ledge then proceeded to the police. I was waiting an hour and there was no show. This is not the first time the police have let me down. So, next time the staff see this guy they'll ring the police. The staff at five star are certainly no strangers to this kind of mischief, and they are constantly barring people. I think Five Star should have its own little police force if I'm being perfectly honest. 

Till next time Five Star, stay safe!

A(nother) disgrace




You may as well have gagged me and tied me in a corner last night. I was booked in to Richmond street (my favorite homeless hostel), and I was ecstatic that I would have a room to myself! So far, I've had no real run ins with the staff here, and (bar having to sit around criminals) I've had no real gripes with the place...until last night. I witnessed something absolutely horrendous and, frankly, quite sickening. One of the many characters of my homeless experience is a slightly eccentric elderly lady. I've spoken to her a few times and found her to be quite fraught, nervous and wary. Now I know why.

So, I was sitting in the kitchen, consciously keeping my cool, and pretending to actually like this bunch of scumbags (to avoid any aggro). Then this absolute gobshite walks in...I've been messing with his tiny head for the past few weeks. Every time I come in he claims I'm a reporter...which I suppose I am...whaddup blog yo!...joke...I certainly wouldn't consider this blog something a significant amount of people will read...although I hope so. He always eyes me up and down suspiciously and asks me the same question 'what newspaper do you work for?'. Predictably, he asked me the same question last night...'The Sun' I replied 'and the Irish Times'...doped out of his head, a moment later he had forgotten...maybe he saw a fleck of dust or something? Then *Mary walked in back from a long hard day trudging the streets of Dublin...Mary is the woman aforementioned. She is no younger than fifty five. Winking she said 'I'll give you that interview later', clearly trying to wind up the retard sitting beside her 'oooohhhh' I say 'great I'll talk to you later'. Then within a matter of minutes, the gobshite (we'll call him John) erupted. Firstly he knocked Mary's flask over, and when she confronted him he began a disgraceful onslaught of abuse. I can't remember most of it...but seeing this huge man in his early twenties shouting and intimidating  a frail elderly woman, with missing teeth was both horrifying and nauseating. I actually felt physically ill after a while...as the abuse continued. She tried to stand up for herself but the drugged up male continued to spit bile into her face calling her a 'geebag' and 'an old witch'...she retorted by calling him a 'knacker' and a 'scumbag' (she was not wrong). The staff finally intervened, and by intervened I mean they stood there watching the drama unfold, completely 'non judgmentally'. They basically let this man continue to bully and intimidate this old woman for a further ten minutes...and refused to step in unless he began to approach her looking for a physical fight. They literally stood there, waiting to stop him from hitting her...but otherwise, totally tolerating the blitz of venom targeted at this poor woman. So, I interposed, backing her up...she was having a go at the staff at this stage (understandably) 'you do nothing!!!' she screamed in desperation, food was flying out of her mouth, because she was taking a bite of food when John decided to torment her. She was visibly shook up, and utterly defenseless. You could hardly call me a defense, because they would have easily started at me if given half a chance. I told her to leave, but I have been in that situation before, and when you spend time cultivating a rapport with someone and they throw it back in your face so aggressively, retaliation is a natural response. As I watched the drama unfold, I realized that no one was defending her. It was a classic example of 'bully' and 'victim'...and no sides were being taken. The movie 'A Bronx Tale' resonates well here. Everyone was scared of this man, so no one said anything, for fear of being his next target. However, if any one is going to intervene, you'd think it would be the staff...but nothing happened. The staff have shunned this old woman, presumably thinking if she's not hard enough to defend herself, she's not hard enough for these places. They probably think of her as an insane posh lady, who is probably of her rocker, hence the reason she is in these places. But I have been in her situation, more times than I'd care to reflect on, and that is a crock of shit! She is simply traumatized. Apparently, this is a daily occurrence, and what I witnessed last night is 'nothing' compared to what she has experienced in the past. Apparently, she was beaten up by a gang of women in the past in these places, and she has been enduring a surge of abuse from these spaced out scumbags for the past seven months, every night when she comes in to eat her dinner and watch a bit of t.v. She also had numerous cups of tea thrown at her in the past. And all because...she doesn't take drugs, and has a posh accent. Charming. 

Later, I asked her why she didn't make a report and she said 'because they do nothing! The staff love all this and it is what keeps them relevant'. I spent two hours following the incident sitting beside her, while the staff walked around the building. One member of staff even started cleaning the filthy kitchen, in a vain attempt to make it marginally better. All the while Mary was in a heap, shaking, and having a visible panic attack in the corner. Not one member of staff tried to console her. It was left to me, because pretty much everyone else in the room were more than happy to see her face get eaten off. None of them like 'sobers' like me and her. The staff don't like us either, they probably assume we have somewhere else to go, and are taking up the bed of someone in real need...someone...say, on drugs. It is a clear prejudice in these places and I am beyond sick of it. They don't even hire a cleaner any more in Richmond street, I suppose they assume the place is just going to get filthy again, anyway...what's the point, like? Later on I confronted the staff, and when I asked to write a report they said they had 'no report sheet'...because 'people generally don't make reports'...weird. Then when I asked them if they could give me the name of the man who visibly verbally attacked this elderly woman, they said 'we can't give out names...it's our policy'...it's like every homeless hostel has a different policy. I was staying in an STA several months ago, and if an incident happened...you would fill out a report, names would be provided, and it would be dealt with the following morning. Seemingly, that rule does not apply here. Mary later told me, that Richmond house is primarily for elderly men who are on drugs...well that makes sense. Although, after trawling through google I have found nothing online about Richmond street. For all I know, it could be a frigging family run homeless hostel...

The staff in Richmond street have really let me down, with both their lack of action, and attitude. 
I feel sick. 

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

The desperation of being without a roof (and tolerating abuse)



As I sit here in a heap of tears...I think it is about time I write a blog on this while it is still fresh on my memory and the feelings are still raw. Time seems to block out those sad memories and make traumatizing events smaller...but that does not take away from their significance. This morning a man I have been casually 'dating' ripped the bed sheets off me (for the second morning in a row), aggressively grabbed my arm, and thrust me out the door, flinging my belongings after me. 'I'm sick of this every morning!' he hisses loudly 'I have to be somewhere, and you make me late every day!'. Shook up and distressed, I sat on the step outside his apartment, gathering my disordered belongings. He snapped his head around the corner and approached me aggressively, making me flinch automatically. He then grabbed my arm and bags and shoved me out the door, extremely forcefully, making sure I felt every jolt. He has been "helping" and abusing me simultaneously...thus is the life of the homeless person. On the one hand, anyone willing to sit them up for the night is thoughtful and humanitarian, yet, by the same token since it is on a charity basis...abuse is far more readily tolerated. For instance, it was this guy that convinced me to start this very blog; his mother is a writer and he lavished me with compliments, telling me my writing is second to none. He helped me with my C.V and even invited me to one of the courses he is teaching on how to find work. He also held me up on numerous occasions when I was stuck for somewhere to sleep, and my only option was a sleeping bag, or merchants Quay (a hall full of drug addicts and drunks, sleeping on mattresses together). Last night was one of those nights. I arrived late (about 1:20am) and to say he was unimpressed is an understatement. He rang me when I was about ten minutes from the house calling the plan off. Clearly, caring about whether or not I slept rough wasn't of any significant importance to him. After hanging up on me numerous times (for some reason) he eventually picked up, and resumed his offer. Desperation got the better of me, and even though I knew I was walking in to a potentially disparaging situation, I proceeded...I was gripped with the fear of having to tolerate drunkards and drug users. The smell of beer breath and sweat was really not something I was in the mood to sleep through. My confidence has been eroded so badly by abuse from druggies and drunks that any potentially abusive situation seems commonplace to me now. Abuse has become a familiarity. My mother and father abused me as a kid, friends abused me in school, peers racially and emotionally abused me in college, my ex boyfriend abused me, and now I've run in to another person more than happy to corrupt me even further. And why? Because I am desperate for some where nice and quiet to lay my head down. I swear this guy is ten times stricter than the homeless hostel staff in the mornings. He ripped the covers off me, and then started ranting on about how lazy, unmotivated and stupid I am. I snapped back, as any one at the tail end of abuse would, and he made me feel guilty for safe guarding myself against his jabs at my personality. The crux of the matter is that I am in his house. There is no denying it, I am on his property However, I am not his property, this is something he doesn't understand. As the saying goes, if you can't handle the fire - get out of the kitchen. However, he has totally taken my desperate sittuation as an excuse to abuse me. He is the typical abuser at that, and he knows it. I think he has always secretly resented me, and this was waiting to happen. He is infernally telling me how he gets 'really weird vibes' off me, and that I am constantly 'crossing his boundaries'. I won't even get in to how he continually gives me a patronizing quizzical look which leaves me confounded. It is something like Hillary Duff's face in Lizzy Maguire when she talks to Gordo.
He is so abominably rude...but then again, I am made feel bad, as it is his house.
It's like non stop Britney 'shade face' with him. It's as if he is saying 'I'm offering you somewhere to stay...but why in God's name are you taking me up on it?'


Because I am desperate can't you tell!?!
He is definitely the bitchiest man I've ever known, and I have no idea why he thinks he has that authority over me. A wallop in his snide little mug is what he deserves. However, I thwart that thought automatically...why? Because I have a soft spot for Colombians; and that is where he is from. He is both cursed and blessed; blessed with being super cute and kind at times, and cursed with a nasty spiteful attitude. He is also adopted, so he has a big long sob story, and I just can't stay mad at someone like that. So, without fail, the arguments are forgotten (on his part). However, each dig lingers in my mind and soul. He hurts me, each time, yet he is determined to continue his barrage of abuse. He is intent on taking me down peg-by-peg. 
The worst part is, I told him my life story. He knows all my deepest darkest secrets (as I know his). At the moment he feels closer to me than family; not completely dissimilar to a cult. Reel you in and make you comfortable...then use all the information gathered when you were "friends" to take advantage of you.

I have put my well being and self worth in the hands of a dictionary-definition sadist

sadism (ˈseɪdɪzəm ; ˈsæ-) 
Definitions
noun
the gaining of pleasure or sexual gratification from the infliction of pain and mental suffering on another person . See also algolagnia . Compare masochism

This is the desperation of homelessness. This is the pay off. This is the state of mind. This is the hopelessness, anguish and rashness one feels when no one near and dear is willing to help.

No doubt I'll get a phone call off him this evening to sort it all out over 'black coffee' (he can't afford milk because he gambled away his week's dole)
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Saturday, October 10, 2015

My homeless anthem: BBHMM

I decided to write about my 'homeless attitude' today. Everyone's attitude changes when faced with the elements on a daily basis, and when they are more or less forced to contend with seriously exasperating people regularly. The end point of my patience was when my health began to suffer. For some reason this is always the cut off point for me, although I know it should be a lot sooner. Stress always manifests itself physically with me. My skin will become inflamed and irritable, I'll get chronic stomach pain, or in this case; when I shut my eyes, I will be blinded by flashing lights. The only way I can describe it is a constant flux of colours and flashes of light in my entire field of vision. I am not blinded by it, it's like a transparent light filled film in front of my eyes. It is very much akin to the visual phantasmagoria that is created when one rubs their eyes. It happened suddenly, and sleeping has been a nuisance ever since. I would wake up dazed and off balance, worn out by the previous night's symphony of colour. My befuddlement, soon turned into frustration, and eventually, in to fury. I was walking around the streets of Dublin, cold, dizzy, and tired. Eventually I got a more 'permanent' bed. By 'permanent' I mean, I had my own room  (in a building full of drug users) and  I could come and go as I pleased. However, my inhabitancy was completely dependant on how 'well I behaved myself'. The strictest house rule was no physical violence. With an aura filled head, and a building full of verbally abusive house mates, it's fair to say that I was on my arse again within a few months.

Okay, let's cut to the chase...walking around all day would make me cranky, especially when the only thing I would have to look forward to would be a damp, uninspiring room. I'd have no where to 'make my own'. I didn't have a sanctuary. So, my resentment to the people I was meant to consider friends and family grew. As far as I was concerned, if anyone loved me in any way, I would not be in this situation. So I decided to 'give up' being the 'good girl'. When someone would be rude to me, I'd tell them where to stick it, when my mother would refuse to help me financially I'd go in to a frenzy, and when I was hungry and had no money, I would shop lift. I felt like the world owed me something. My 'street trudging' anthem became 'Bitch Better Have My Money' by Rihanna. I wasn't quite sure who the 'bitch' was? It could have been my mother? It could have been the Irish government? Who knows? But, damn she owed me money! I felt like such a rebel. Generally, I tend to have an apologetic disposition, I hunch my back and avoid eye contact at these times. I am not sure where this tendency evolved from, but it seems to have gotten worse over the years. However, when I'd play BBHMM in my head my self consciousness would evaporate. Anger would become my motivator. I'd sling the rucksack over my back contentiously, narrow my eyes, and heatedly tackle the crowd. I wouldn't care if I bruised a few people, or knocked some babies out of their mother's arms. I'd lean on the pedestrian-light-button-pole and eye up my fellow halted man. They'd anxiously try to make eye contact, and then pull away before the connection would happen. I may have been homeless, I may have been mangy, my hair may have looked like a birds nest, and my shoes may have been a corrective pair of asics, but I'll be damned if I hadn't intimidated those pedestrians. My aim would be simple; to manoeuvre my way to Marks and Spencers... there, I would pop a few salads in my bag, and walk out. The choleric ambiance that'd surround me at these times would be enough to make any security guard avert his eyes.
The Homeless world - is an angry world



The Real world - is a sober world


When one is homeless they forget what life is like in the 'real' world, being 'normal' becomes an unimaginable fantasy. However, it is amazing how quickly we slip out of this state of mind once we click in with reality again. Sometimes, I would give myself a little break. I would book myself in to a tourist hostel, just for a few days. Being around tourists, eager to learn all about Ireland and all it has to offer, is pretty much the antithesis to wasting my life away hanging out with zombies who appreciate nothing. I would be placid and soothed as I would lay my head down to rest on a clean pillow case. There would usually be a a small amount of rummaging, but nothing too imposing. A female tourist would sneak in to the room, as quiet as a church mouse. The only annoyance would be the glare from her phone flash light, and even that would not be too bothersome. She would usually smell of dewy flowers or watermelon, her hair would always be clean and shiny, and she would have a soft, misty Spanish accent. There would usually be two of them, 'best friends' more than likely. My nights sleep would be sweetened by the company. I'd wonder why I was ever so angry? Instead of being constantly appalled by swollen faces, raspy voices and curse words, I'd be greeted with smiles and genuine attentiveness. I'd be at ease, and realise that this is what I deserve. And then... I'd mentally start mocking my previous feelings of murderous anger. ''Superwoman''s mockery of BBHMM is a good example of how I would treat my old feelings


...but then...

I run out of money...and the fear, stress, and frustration returns...









Friday, October 9, 2015

What I do during the day: Example one

Bustling bodies push past me as I struggle to make my way down O Connell street, with two heavy bags. I've exhausted the phrase (or should I say word?) 'sorry'. It is as if I am apologizing for my existence...I may as well say 'sorry for being alive...I know it's a nuisance to have to look at me hobbling down the biggest street in Ireland with two heavy bags, messy hair, and shabby clothes'. Either way, being homeless brings with it the constraint of being ten times more humble than the lay person. Hardening your accent and wearing ratty clothes is almost a right of passage to not getting extensively verbally abused. This is a lesson I learnt the hard way, unfortunately. 'Sorry' 'Sorry' Sorry'. My bags are heavy. I am worsening my already sore back, and I am going no where. Somewhere to sit would be nice. O Connell street becomes an eternal roadway. I wade through the human traffic and glaring eyes. People sense my despair. I get the odd half smile, but I mainly get repulsed gestures of indignation. Women clutching on to their handbags for dear life while talking on the phone, kids asking me why I have so many bags, and young working men scrutinizing my tatty outfit, as if to say 'someone's never gonna get laid'. I'm finally here...the casino. The bouncer knows me well, he's eastern European, they all are. What is it with eastern Europeans working as casino bouncers? I'll never know. 'Hoody' he grumbles as he mimes pulling down a hood. I do as I am told and drudge in to the casino. I look around in search for melancholy Mauritian faces. Strangely, Mauritians are the only minority of homeless people who don't do drugs. They are enthroned with incredible resilience. There's Mohammed...'heya' I mutter as I take a seat beside him, 'hillo' he says accompanied with a slight head bobble. We prater on for a few minutes before realizing the language and cultural barrier is too significant. The only thing we have in common is our homelessness and our sobriety. Another eastern European bouncer does his rounds, ensuring everyone is gambling away all their money. He reaches us and nods, we are off the hook.                

Half ten is crunch hour, the phones come out and the dialing begins. 1800707707. Unless you ring at 10.30pm on the dot you'll be sleeping on the streets, it is as simple as that. The homeless system works on a first come first served basis. While you are waiting for somewhere to stay full time, you pace the streets of Dublin until half ten. At half ten the world stands still and all that matters is getting a bed. I dial, and redial until I get through...and even then, I'm number 47 in line. I am being deafened by a very loud and very patronizing tune...I contemplate whether it is a piano or some kind of synth machine? Either way, it needs to be changed. I am number three; and half the casino know I am homeless at this stage, because the tune is blaring. A very intimidating Dub roars 'FREEPHONE' down the phone. I bashfully try to initiate a conversation...but he is having none of it...'DATE OF BIRTH' he booms. I am half deaf at this stage. I give my date of birth, and he trawls through the list of vacant beds. The pause goes on forever as I am terrified of both my expendabilty and the man on the other end. He opens with a 'right' and then transmits the good news; 'we have a bed'. 

The next half an hour consists of me running to wherever I am placed.

8/10/15

I decided to write about today while it is still fresh on my mind. I am currently sitting in one of the communal areas of one of the most notorious homeless hostels of all; Cedar House.
There is a smell of stale smoke lingering in the air. This smell actually made me very sick several months ago. I was in bed for two days, heaving, and having to hold my breath while walking past this particular communal area. A Brazilian man I met in a tourist hostel a few weeks ago is sitting in the corner. It is an awkward situation, because this is always a grim place to catch up in. There is a small Slovakian (who looks Pakistani) in the corner making tea for himself. Finally there is a capped forty year old watching tv. We are all positioned as far away from each other as is humanly possible.

Now, on to last night...a sleepless night, but by no means, the worst. I was in a four dorm room last night. This news always sinks my heart, as there is always the chance of being in the same room as a user. I will get into some of these experiences in a later blog. However, for now, I'll just talk about this particular night. In the bedrooms there is a particular sickly smell...I can't quite put my finger on it...but it makes the experience all the more temporary. 'In-and-out' like an unhealthy takeaway. Last night, there was only one user...thankfully, she was so 'out of it' on 'the gear' that she flung herself on the bed and was out like a light before she even pulled the duvet over her massive stomach. She came in later that  night. Thankfully the other two were 'normal', as far as normal goes. One was a young pock marked woman with bleached hair from Drimnagh. She wore crop tops and spoke to her boyfriend on the phone. She has clearly worked in the past, as she looked very responsible and motivated. She greeted me with an assertive 'howiye' and I knew I'd have no problems there. The other 'normal' one was a bit stranger. She is an older woman who dresses like a thirteen year old. Her arms were adorned with dozens of plastic bracelets, and she laughed uncontrollably at, well, frankly, nothing. However, she kept to herself and I knew she wasn't on drugs. Hallelujah.

Back to the drug using Bull. We all groaned when we saw her enter the room. She was accompanied by staff, and the first thing she did was fling her cigarette packet on the bed. This was seen clearly by the staff (an obvious gesture of disrespect) and nothing was done. She was assisted on to the bed. However, she only managed to use the bed as a sofa, leaning her head against the wall, and falling asleep. The snoring started immediately. It was a cacophonous snore interspersed with pure gargling noises. She made a considerable raucous. However, I was just so relieved that she was too drugged up to start using, that I fell asleep immediately. Someone had stolen my pillow, so I lay my head on the mattress and dozed off. I was awoken at 5am as the bull was making 'groaning sounds'. 'The weird one' added her own commentary by saying (rather ominously) 'she's crying in her sleep, she's crying in her sleep'. It was an eerie setting, like something out of a thriller: one conked out obese zombie, a peculiar woman (who stares and smiles) ...and me. I had a strange dream, about a door stopper and my grand dad...a welcome distraction. My dreams are always my escape from these places...although, more often than not I wake up to a strong smell of heroine, and it usually takes me a while to rise because the passive smoke is slightly paralysing. That wasn't the case tonight. I simply forced myself out of bed when the pink pyjamas adorned bull decided to 'light up' at 8am.

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Why I became Homeless

As my grandfather ripped the jumper off my torso, screaming obscenities in my face, it became more than obvious that I wasn't welcome here. I ran into the living room, trembling, as he sat in the kitchen mulling in his frustration and resentment. The water was calm for now, but for how long was a different story. I approached him later. He was sitting at the round kitchen table, the same one we had all sat at for many a meal (many a happy meal). I sat down beside him, head bent, 'I'm sorry' I offer. He looks up at me, eyes a transparent grey, and stares. He has no idea what I am talking about. This is the curse of dementia. Shouting and screaming became a pivitol part of his daily routine, as did telling me he 'loved' me after I apologised for something I did not do. The straw that broke the camels back was when I found out about an abominable decision my uncle had made. His wife was pregnant, and none of us approve of her. I promised myself ten years ago, if my uncle let this happen, that I would cut all contact with my family. I guess I was hoping that he would never do this to me. I know if my grandfather was in the right frame of mind, he would never let this happen. Unfortunately, he wasn't, and I had to leave.

Goodbye family, hello cruel world.

I packed a rucksack full of clothes and neccesities, and left. I had no idea how to go about this. I felt like a nomad in my own country. The streets were full of nothing but expressionless faces. Walking down a street is something we all do on auto pilot. We fall and catch ourselves, over and over. It is a stressful experience, and something we tend to do single mindedly - to get somewhere. Think about it, this is Ireland, walking is something that is endured, it is quite an efficient way to travel short distances (that is until we invent that ever pending hover craft). I was now about to be integrally interwover into the fabric of this enviornment. You may as well have called me a tree, a shrub, or a sewer rat. Then, it hit me; my neighbors, housemates and friends were all to be found in this environment, on  the streets I had tread begrudgingly so many times before.