No, I will not put myself in my parents’ shoes and try to imagine how worried they are about my sleeping at rest areas. That’s irrelevant. They aren’t the ones living like that; I am. Frankly their feelings don’t fucking matter. I’m trying to keep myself as safe and healthy as possible as inexpensively as possible. Catering to the feels of retired yuppies is not on the agenda. Ain’t happenin’, cracka.
I’m not the one who tried to make it personal. Not in the past year or two, anyway. That’s the doing of Boomers who worry about my achievement and its reflection on them. I should be doing something with my intellect, they say. When I propose using my intellect to file a pro se police complaint against Joe Dirtbag, though, suddenly I’m scaring them. I’m not assertive enough, but asserting my right to ask Porky to crack down on fraud and white trash belligerence against me is super problematic. It would upset people. As does my homelessness, which Joe Dirtbag provoked. I still think he was on the verge if battering me the day I walked out on him and the Family Shrew. It’s nothing I’d be too embarrassed to tell a cop. I’ll tell the Sheriff himself if he asks. I’ve never had an Oregon cop act like he’d throw me into a wall in a fit of inexplicable anger. The Man doesn’t treat me like that in Oregon, white boy. Blood may be thicker than water, but it has jack shit on 911. Jim Croce, pray for us. And for Glen Campbell, I guess.
That, you see, is a bridge too far in worrying about my welfare. Helping me stand up to a relative so predatory that I often consider highway rest areas a refuge from him would require too much moral courage. If others want to be moral cowards before the guy who drove me into warm homelessness, that’s their problem. If they insist that I share their moral cowardice no matter what he does to me, that’s my problem, and I’ll make it a police problem the moment I feel the need for a cop. Bitches get snitches, dawg.
That’s what a self-confident Millennial generation looks like. Of course the Boomers don’t want that. Scamming adults who act like adults is a pain in the ass. They’ve purposely cultivated us to be a more compliant market for their cons.
Oh , yeah, I also get to be homeless in California, my first home state, since my parents offered to cosign on an apartment for me only in Oregon, so that the relative I’d already accused of extreme emotional abuse and erratic behavior could more readily act in loco parentis for me. As PJ O’Rourke’s slow friend from Anacostia told the cops with the warrant out for his arrest, “I lives here. Can I come in?” When I ask this of the California state government, the answer is yes.
Trying to explain this shit to current or diaspora Palo Altans who would rather make homelessness go away by not thinking about it can be excruciating. Ramos and Cicinelli I can avoid easily enough. I know where to find cops who don’t freak out over the homeless should I have a use for one. Dion Joseph might find me TOO normal. My trouble is with the civilian affluent. They’re the ones who turn Maslow’s hierarchy of needs upside down for my edification. Why should I have to explain to psychologists and psychiatrists that a self-actualized career is higher on the pyramid than not a not totally chaotic shelter arrangement and a piece of ass now and then? If they reserved their psychology for people who need some damn psychology, they might not be so worried about the very desultory underachievement of their failspawn. Inpatient care for Robert Dziekanski and Kajieme Powell must not be as lucrative. They certainly aren’t around to, shall we say, communicate the new life it created for them.
It would be gauche of me to ask one of my affluent to buy me a cheap house in some ass end of my state. But we homeless get by by being gauche. My homeless vet buddy straight-up asks strangers for money. I pull deposit bottles out of trash cans, as straight up as the bin design will allow. Depending on how fed up I become with Kaiser, I may start flying my own sign about Obamacare and my findom relationship with it. With more money to spare, one can afford to be more precious and proper about filthy petty lucre.
I’m pretty sure I know people who wish the homeless were all crazy or retarded enough for Dion Joseph. That way they wouldn’t have to listen to the lucid homeless articulate the articulable. Backsass is a bitch, but Backsass bitch many of my fellow Americans richly deserve to be. They’ve been asking for it, and when I’m annoyed with this shit as I am now, my word is my bond that they will get some around here.