Giving Up

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Added: Mon. Jan 17, 2011 10:02pm
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Now that I have officially  been told that I do not live in my neighborhood’s historic district, that I’m simply on the fringes (the story of my life), I have completely lost focus; my life has no direction. I now sit barefooted on the back step and drink cheap beer all day while I wave at the homeless men who slouch around in the area.  I even laughed and clapped when one of them threw a beer bottle in my neighbor’s yard yesterday – the old, hold-my-head-up-high girl would have never done that, but I’m a changed person. No longer will I shy away  from the legless guy in the wheelchair who leers at me; the next time I see him, I’ll sit on the side of the road, chew a little ‘baca with him, and talk about stuff and things. I won’t even yell at the woman on drugs who jumped off my front porch with the large St. Bernard recently – heck, if she comes again, I’ll jump with her. I don’t even care if we fall in the hedges and bounce around. I have stopped pretending. No longer do I comb my hair before I go outside; I just shake my head and let my fluffy mane fall where it may – what difference does it make? I also no longer have the desire to look like a doctor’s wife when I venture out my front door; the woman who sent me the curt email telling me the facts – that the historic district stops one street over  - and  that I, therefore, don’t qualify for one of those wonderful black historic signs with gold letters that I want so much - doesn’t care – she probably IS a doctor. Today, my guess is she took the day off to go to the country club bridge, fashion show, spa and hasn’t given any thought to my feelings.  She thinks  she is so smart, but she’s not – while she’s gone, she’s going to miss a great daily event on my street – people riding bikes that are held together by duct tape.  Plus, I’ll bet that her fancy dancy husband is having an affair with the street lady who hangs out behind the air conditioner at the building down the street (which is also NOT in the historic district.) After all, truth is stranger than fiction – sometimes.