Good Evening America,
As some of you two readers know, I've been cast to the lowest class of the persecuted. A transient hobo I became last December due to forces out of pure joy in their luck club, had a stacked deck which broke my tiny budget and home freed me to street life.
At first mobile hobo in my 97 Camry deluxe brandishing unsheepish license plate numbers 5150 for all who should be aware of it's truth in advertising clause, had a break down of battery power due to the use of radio power untimed with alternator recharge.
In a moment of glee, I lost both radio and drivability at a strip mall in Long Beach California, after an unpleasant visit to the Queen Mary, a boat not monarch, tossed my smart ass off the rocking replica.
Wow.
Rushed to see if I had a car, A security guard lead me to a parking lot filled with bored patrons of patronizationalizm, seeped in auto loan self esteem programs, where I honestly claimed he would be able to differentiate my auto from the rest.
I had in an instance of true paper free, tree hugging, genius plotted my book in marker on my car. I also advertised a pentient for drug use, asking dealers to pull me over for samples.
Not any offers, but the phone number offered future business dealings. lol
Nobody does it like this bipolar american and unfortunately, I was stuck in a parking lot, broken window, anti-social self graffiti, and no music to soothe the vagrant volatility.
Yes, I sought the refuge of a bakery for nutrition, a pilates fitness establishment for phone charge and decided life on the strip mall circuit was for me.
Notably, no external bathrooms offered, I found my first night filling cups and bottles full of bipolar piss more acidic than average toxic excretions, I had to toss it or possibly soil my own car with the super charged contents. Yuk!
Ok, as this bipolar has learned the hard way, buzzkill light year is always on hand to deliver me to the precautionary poster child syndrome, dropping a careless eye, my passenger side was soaked in my yellow nemesis. But I tossed the stuff to the asphalt, predawn of the shopping, eating public's arrival time, and diluted with water, as not to cause a panic or simple disgusting facial expression.
You see life in street side view offers few choices for indoor elimination. I held, denied myself hydration, but had no other option than to deliver outdoor style.
Females must be daunted by this harrowing challenge, as there is the placement of pants vs. splatter, shoe vs. sock, stop and go, shy and dry, and finally the twat squat.
You gotta go, I am sorry, but I would have provided a port a potty, neutral clay litter, or scoopable people sized litter boxes. Or bathrooms filled with water closets, aka toilets, which flush this refuse to the ocean where we eat a fish sandwich and shit.
Or maybe some of the time it's a flush royal thrown event where it's vomit from a night of alcohol overconsumption and newly aligned prayers regarding cessation of the painful hanging on to the bowl. Not so tidy.
Luckily, I had an anal retentive background, potty training was a wicked timing game, and I played without actual results. I acted relieved and my mother was short on follow up, never knowing I could hardly put out.
Any who, the days of strip mall homesteading, came to a finale, as I took a very bent and pain ridden body to Chevron where coffee of an intense brew came to my drug free zone.
Before I knew what had hit me, I was acting intoxicated, and criminally free to do so. Not illegal drugs as had once been exploited by police and court, this was a morning beverage I only rarely partook of.
On this morning I took a par in the course of action incarnate.
My inhibition driven to the edge of sanity, began an eyeing of surroundings that were previously undetected by my naked eyes love for symmetry and beauty.
Ugg.
Then the sarcastic seemed to play out in physical language. I estimate I did all I could do to enjoy the morning, short of mocking the birds, which are cool people, I must say. They too were taken aback at my enjoyable, self depricating, humor driven attack on the world staged around me.
I broke all rules, staggered instead of walked, drank from a dog bowl in front of a pet store, fell helplessly into hedges, swore an oath of irresponsibility and entered my car from the roof in thru the window with no physical hardship.
I call it drunken master. I was physically timed comedic, ascerbic, and uncaring of reviews. Video cameras came out as no passer by was unassailed or unshaken by my performance.
However, businesses closed doors, cars veered as I jeered the richly luxuriated class of characters caught in their slippery reality of control.
Good laughs from middle age women, and young women too. Men seemed more concerned as to the possible clash with their male/sex driven priveledged agendas.
Can't stop a clown with caffeine and location acceptance enthusiasm.
Wherever, whenever, any time, coffee, tea and my heckle and jecklism, trademarks of the patently unruffled ridgeback.
Got media alerts, and u tube time, and out I came to claim my jumper cables were not working. But I was indeed in the heat of the moment. Hubba hubba.
Well, there was a moment of fountain posing, buddah would have loved the posture, throwing paper bills into the water.
Up came the cop on top of my brand new attitude: so I made a run for it.
Hid my body, arm hanging out door with cigarette, until I was asked to come to papa and just talk.
No my talk had exceeded verbal limits, breaking sound barriers, and reefer, had I added it, would have left me laughing madly at myself, fulfilled in each cup of noodling.
Let me say the police were correct not to allow this driver moving faster than an auto manufacturers recommended speedometer levels, to drive.
So, after a few pictures of the group hug nature, the laughs took off to downtown Long Beach
where I would learn of the bum's run course carefully crafted to consume all time, free, and block the clock into a frame of shame.
Hobo Magic, I now call myself, exploited the extended self satisfied, outward trending, to detonate a few mind feelds in the region, by offering unexplained gates and finally having a true moment of glory as my pants slipped to my ankles as I crossed the street.
Can't plan that stuff, just happens....lol
But these mercedes benzodiazipinion steering call em's headed straight at me insurance policy proof hit and run.
I jumped my feigned indignence into a safer slot, and police blotted me to the back of the car.
Later I would take a care free trip to safari hunting tranquilizing, slipping into a wrestless coma until the defiant, after coffee bitch emerged.
Where's my Car mutherfuckers?
I knew it was gone to the safety seeking, out of sight and mind if you don't crowd, and off to nuthouse visit, number whatever the record is now.
Being held by semi-groomed, demi gods of mental health, I resisted, spat food, then arrived my day to court side confession.
Charged with naked revelation, I simply told the judge the truth was the pants were too big, slipped down, but boxers remained. I did admit to thinking it was funny too.
Hence, the position became one of let the girl go be car free, roam alone to another destination. As security now operated in the strip mall home of the brave, I had to take my lesser status out of the arrogantia eating hole, no plan or money to allow for proper choosing.
Left to a righteous wronging of the Longer than wide beach of clubs for credit card, self aggrandized car owners, I would return to the cypress anaheim area to wander.
It took no more than a day of distress, and as I described, a lack of choice menu, devalued, depressed and devoid of hope, I moved to Starbucks and long lines of addicted coffee drinkers with auto mobile service driving thru.
Hell drug dealers of an ominous nature would never allow that kind of traffic, someone might get suspicious. LOl
I laughed my ass off, tasting, testing, and facebook frolic.
That is until the night of the first street performance plan I had enacted in my post debutante mindset.
"Yes, they will love my poetry recitations, humble pie eyes, they will love me and pour money into my milk bottle."
See previous post for the performance saved for the disgrace of me, by parrots at a store, hearing a message of distress.
Averting eyes from a fallen comrade? Unacceptable, was my tone.
Police came and tested for compliance, I adopted a submissive tone, passing with not flying colors, but brandished words for the money cloaked auto zoners.
Birds showed me the art of playing fun and frolic reminding me of a time I may have thought money was a true mark of character.
No more, as I know, it's been challenging, but I am suited for this deck of hall of shamers, listing my own improprieties first then leveling charge on those actively resisting their own dynamic of easy living.
My hardship was to grow, wherein I found myself shoveled out of a pharmacy without favorite calm and pander drugs, and into a full protest mode, curled into a ball under a blanket, laying on landscaped bark.
I planned a starvation end, no further contact planned with surroundings.
However, as a rule, I usually get no self pity in quantity as I was used to having it during my youth, and rain clouds gathered.
Dark clouds dropped buckets upon this slumbering suicide queen of hearts, until I was forced to dry my bark bed, or bite the bullet.
I headed for drug store overhang, and leaned against trash can for good measure.
I was asked to leave.
My anger began to boil as I ignored the authoritative terms to actually leave.
Sudden outburst, "Where do I go?"
Half cry, half direction request, all true human response.
Rejected from a trash can sitting position, suddenly a grubby hand reached for me, and hobo help had arrived.
"Do you want to go or not," the stranger demanded.
No options, I followed him to another building where we made camp under wet blankets, our body heat the only thing tolerable.
The weather went wild, wind swirling rain onto our new hobo union, until morning, when clouds scattered and chill wind winterized our radiators.
I had more than a homeless rescue, I argued quietly in my mind. Where is this going, was a future day planner functional overload.
Never been on foot, on streets, dodging hail and storm reservoirs seeking my resolve in it's wake.
I followed this man for days dumpster diving for recycled cans, collecting enough to keep me in cigarettes and small amounts of food.
I cried, but worse, I whined like a spoiled child.
He threatened to leave me, our union only days old, if I didn't curtail the self pity expressed in deeply felt defeat.
What was I to do?
Next, the bank stopped my access to the account due to identity issues, and I now had to live without the aid of a corrupt, criminally madcap income social security.
I would have to rely on hobos and passers by for financial and nutritional support.
My bathroom training edged now on borderline offensive marking. An alley cat style. Spray not spay.
This ends the days report from her own home free network of hobo hoodwinks a hood could think was wink, but dink again....
Your friend and Alliance for stop a lie ances, and truth be tolled, you will learn to love the marker game.
For now, I am working on books, Owner of a boner, guide to sexual cuntidishining, and The hedonists guide to the bipolar playing feild, offering an array of advice, and impossible possibilities lined to draw a sand wedge between you and dogged control freaks.
Head to your nearest store, buy a pack of smokes, and light up, tobacco junction is but a road to the smoking gun shop.
Love you, Laura
