baileygenine:

I live in the bad part of San Francisco. I’m at the point where I accept it so much that I hardly notice the crazy shit that is going on around me at all time. 

Yesterday I got yelled at for not saving someone’s life when they walked into oncoming traffic. I told him, “if you would’ve seen the look on my face you would’ve realized you were about to die,” but actually yelling at him to move was beyond my level of social interaction. This was after I saw the neighborhood notice “There is no good heroin here anymore” written on the wall next to the trash can that is torn apart at lunch time every day, leaving dirty diapers, half eaten melons, and used needles strewn across the the sidewalk. None of this bothers me because I know better than to wear my shoes into my apartment, and I’m smart enough to know that buildings don’t leak fluid from their tucked away corners, people do. 

I can hear people shouting every night, and I’m starting to think there’s a Throwing Cinder Blocks Into Dumpsters club that meets around 4:30 every morning. It’s almost exciting to think of all the nonsense that could be going on out there.

This morning a man in a pillow fort tried to sell me the very pillow walls that contained him. I was on the phone so I ignored his pitch, but the last thing I heard was “I’ll call you!”

On my way home a toothless man burped in my face, a woman rolled around in a gutter and a man shoved a cup in his pants. I wondered how much other stuff he had shoved in his pants, before realizing he was the same guy whose penis was the first thing I saw when I left my building yesterday. 

Out of all of these things, none of them bothered me quite as much as walking inside and realizing someone in my building actually ordered a phonebook. I’ve never been so disgusted.