ideas with no tangibility;
ideas with irrelevant supports;
ideas without value;
ideas' witlessness;
ideas' witnesses;



It is hard to cope with happiness. This is the best period of my life ever, bar
none. I have time to learn, discuss, work, clean, I'm wearing clean clothes and
can take regular showers. I don't know how to process it. I've never in my life
been in such a good environment with such good friends and I don't know how to
cope with getting rides everywhere, having meals made for me, my laundry done
by someone else.

I've been very self sufficient for a little while now. I did my laundry at
either a laundromat with money I had earned from work or with my own hands in a
work sink with soap purchased with money I had earned from work. Often the
latter so I could afford to eat food I had prepared with ingredients I had
purchased with money I had earned from work, or food I had prepared during
work. A washing machine doesn't fit in a backpack, nor a dryer, though in a
pinch when walking I could hang clothes off the backpack to get at least a side
of them dry before getting to where I could change out of what I was wearing.

In order to change my clothes I had to find a public bathroom, ideally a Burger
King because I was an employee there but in a pinch if I was fast enough a gas
station would work, put my backpack and clothes on the often dirty floor, and
strip down in a stall or in better cases when a stall was a room a full
restroom. I had to do it fast because gas station attendants and fast food
workers can smell homelessness on you, the hopelessness and stench of hand
washed clothing. It is in the modern era equivalent to smelling addiction and
on occasion I would be accused of taking so long in the bathroom to shoot up
heroin. There was never sympathy or understanding or even acceptance. Because I
was homeless, noticeably so, I was considered subhuman, vermin. 

There was no way to take a shower. Gym bathrooms work if you're cisgender or
living in a generally trans-friendly area. I was not. A shower for me was the
bathroom at work, before work, where I used my laundry soap and a bandanna to
swab my arms, face, neck, chest, and armpits. I had to be quick because the
morning workers liked to spread rumors about my being a homeless addict,
an immediately obvious falsehood to those who knew me but slander for those who
didn't. I wasn't troubled that people knew I was homeless because while
violence likes to come for those on the streets, vermin that can be tortured
and killed the same way rats and cockroaches are in apartments, I was charming,
witty, somewhat educated or seemingly, and tried to be as kind as possible to
others. I tried to be a representable member of the unhoused and of the
trannies, to appeal to those cretins with their ceilings and simpler thoughts.

In order to change my clothes, if in the apartment, I take my clothes off and
put different clothes on. In order to take a shower I go to the bathroom, take
my clothes off, and turn the shower tap. Less pain, less ink. Can I get used to
this? Should I? When I see Subarus outside I wonder if I could have survived
the winter. It was cold as fuck sleeping outside in October. Sometimes I wonder
if I did die in that car. If this is heaven. I wonder if I did die in that car
and so now if I am a different person than who entered. I wonder if Toni is
still where I left her in the parking lot, if she's rotting from disuse and if
the cardboard I used to seal the rear window is molding. The picture of Dorian


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