I warily watch people walking past my home, and there are many. My street is the main thoroughfare between a poor neighborhood and the housing projects. It is terrible of me, but I look on suspiciously. "I wonder which one of you people stole my car," I think. You people. Someone obviously needed my car more than me. I hardly ever drove it which makes life somewhat easier without it. I hate drawing lines in the sand like that though. As if the poor minority people walking by my house were any different from me.
It makes me wonder what people think about me when they find my blog. I wonder if I am one of those people. I have no qualms of sharing some pretty personal and emotional stuff. I wrote about suicide for God's sake last week. I blather on about schizophrenia and we all know the stigma surrounding mental illness.
I got an email today from someone who lives nearby who happened upon the blog and they told me they were laughing at me and not with me. They also named my uncle's pharmacy thinking I was my cousin, Andrew. "How many of your father's customers are reading?" they asked. Close, but no cigar. I just wrote back telling them to do their worse, and that I had nothing to lose. Used to, I would have yanked down this blog in embarrassment and fear.
I realize today that I am one of those people. I am poor. I no longer have a car, nor can I afford to get another. I will be walking everywhere. My destination may not be the housing projects, but it will be pretty close. My friends are Ferret, a drunk who lives in a garage, and Big S, a lay-about with nothing better to do than hang out at a shopping center. I am one of those people and I am okay with that.