In a Perfect World

In a perfect world, I’d give a shit about our Retarded president and the hurt he’s caused. I protest my thoughts on Twitter and join the fight.

In a perfect world, I would go out for drinks when my co-workers ask me too. I wouldn’t make up an excuse and go write at Starbucks alone.

In a perfect world, I would acknowledge the pleas of homeless. I wouldn’t pretend I that I don’t have any change. Or ignore a man who has blood running from his eyes.

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to get into crushing debt to learn how to place lines on a computer screen.

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t watch the woman sneak her wedding ring off as I order another drink. And the next morning, we wouldn’t lie to each other saying that “we’ll totally do this again sometime”.

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t get sad watching all the empty eyes berried in their phones on the train. It wouldn’t break my heart to see all the endless scrolling, just for a little hit of stimulus.

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have felt nothing when I was called a Racist, Bigot, Nazi, white trash, nigger lover, faggot, ignorant, or any other hateful slang.

But unfortunately, I live in this one,

where the hardest part is looking at yourself in the mirror everyday.

Money Trees is the Perfect Place for Shade

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The rain dripped down off his forehead. No time to wipe it off he had work to do. It also didn’t help that both hands were taken, one holding him up, while the other desperately turned the wrench.

He’d originally brought a headlamp he stole from his friend who used it for midnight runs. She’d told him running at night in the dark trails freaked her out, so this was the purchase to combat that. He understood, but still didn’t think looking like a minion from Despicable ME was going to stop a sexed nut homeless man from going after her double sports bra’d sweater puppies. But what did he know, he was only part of the itty bitty titty committee.

The steel of the wrench clanked against the metal structure. Wrrick Wrick Wrick DUNK The third bolt dropped to the ground. “One more to go,” he thought. The sign was loose enough it could slide around into a 360. He’d wished he brought some sort of snips so he could just cut the damn thing off and call it a night. But fuck, it was around 3:00am when he left his apartment. He was in it for the long haul.

The last bolt was the hardest to break loose. “Shut up little bitch! Be humble! Break loose! Be Humble!” he sang out, just like with the first three. Every time he sang, it got him more and more excited about this adventure. Every morning since he moved he would see the sign up in the air on his way to get coffee and every day he would start singing one of k-dot’s songs. You’d have to, he’d tell the homeless lady on the corner. Kendrick is the last real rapper left.

POP! The bolt started turning. “I Said I’m GEEEKED AN I’M FIRRED UP!” he screamed in the night. He threw the sign down and began his decent. His arms felt like jello but he made it down in one piece. No small feat considering the amount of Skyy he drank earlier. He was soaking wet and barely able to move his arms, but inside he felt like Russell Crowe in Gladiator. Surprisingly no cops, no beggars, and, nobody even saw despite how busy of an area this was. He reached down like a girl wearing a mini skirt and picked up the sign.

It read “Lamar Street.”