less-homed

Probably okay to tell you that George Inhulsen is living out of his truck. He posted it on Facebook.

We were in bands together from like thirteen to sixteen. Smoked pot together. Tried angel dust and acid for the first time. Played a shit ton of D&D. Pot had seeds in it back then, George recently pointed out in a text message. His day job isn’t enough.

And ef you see kay.

Mike who’s out of jail and living by Albert up the street again has this habit of yelling to himself as he walks to the gas station to “get me a black ‘n’ mild.” Mike, you talkin’ to ya’ self? My ear drums be fuckin’ wit’ me, man.

Omar who was for the last decade and a half in the white house across the street and two blocks east is now sleeping in the parking lot of the church, hoping he can find a place to rent for four hundred a month, or buy a car to sleep in.

The new gig at the call center: it’s been a week; training so far; more like playing classroom than actual work. Free meal Friday. Beautiful landscaping with woodland and wildflowers, fountained retention ponds, walking paths. Where does all this money come from.

You might think most people have money in their bank accounts. Don’t think that.

Times are tough. Fucking tough.

Late stage something.

Boundaries, boundaries my kingdom for a boundary. An infinite bag of boundaries.

Suck my dick is three syllables.

31/07/2026