It’s a couple of days later and man, I need sleep. So fuck it. I didn’t work but I’ve been having fun drinking, doing drugs, taking self-portraits, and writing instead. Dive motels make me so happy, although this bed sucks some serious ass. I feel so comfortable in filth. This place is a trip. There’s no air conditioning, which is nuts, but it’s spring, so it’s not that hot out. All of the entrance doors automatically lock at 4 p.m. To keep the undesirables out, I assume. Or in, I’m not sure. The hallways smell of bleach. To cover up what? I don’t want to know. The few people I’ve seen are down-in-the-dump types. I think you can get weekly or monthly rates here. It’s a medium sized, two-story motel, but seems to be only about fifteen percent occupied by druggies, losers, boozers, hookers, and me. I couldn’t feel more at home. Was I ghetto born or ghetto made? My mom struggled financially, but I didn’t grow up around this. I grew up out in the country, basically. But then again, when you live with a drug dealer, you see all types. And I spent a fair share of time walking through bad neighborhoods in the city. I like the so-called, “scum of the earth.” There’s less pretense. People are straight shooters. I’m like that. I can dig that. I respect it.

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