I've been feeling lonesome, I think.

I have this intense urge to be around human beings and talk.

Just, you know, converse about reality or something.

I'm a negative asshole with no mutual experiences to share though.

So my potential list of friends is as promising as a nun with a shaved pussy.

Even online there's only one person I talk to regularly.

He's in another country right now.

I'm just trying to not get depressed about life.

I guess.

Yesterday, I stopped to talk to some bums.

The fat one immediately ran away because he was scared of my dog.

The two remaining guys were good dudes.

One was named Shorty, from Georgia.


He was black, had a tan fedora tilted on his bald head and expected to be dead in 6 months from liver cancer.

Shorty confided that he didn't want to die on the streets, just wanted a place with a tv and bed; his own warm room.

His facial expression seemed hopeless while saying this.

The other guy, Shane, was comically covered in dirt and looked like a chimney sweep from that stupid disney movie.
He fidgeted around, singing Primus lyrics and sipped from a sprite bottle filled with vodka.

He was very proud of being from South Chicago.

A concession was made that Shane was immortal because he was disease free.

The two men seemed to have a bond.

They insulted each other repeatedly.

'Nigger' and 'cracker' was used often but there wasn't any malice in the connotation.

It felt like home.

Shane insisted he would fight Shorty.

And leaned over with both hands open at his hips while saying this.

Shorty stood up from the bus bench, took off his hat, then said, "shit!  y'all better have money in ya pockets before I hit you," and feinted a jab-hook-uppercut combination at Shane.

We laughed together.

Later, when I was home, I felt this horrible emptiness inside of me.

The same feeling I get while washing dishes.

Almost as if the weight of the universe is crushing my head in a vice as a woman weeps from another room.

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