The first thing I remember is the way it smells – so bad that it had lost its connection to any thing and had instead come to represent an idea, like hatred, or welfare. Maybe it had started off as rotten garbage combined with stale cigarettes and rancid diapers, then it was left to stew in some irrelevant crack of life in one those American cities we prefer to forget about.

Since then, I’ve discovered that every day is just another opportunity to experience the very worst that humanity has to offer. Any second you’re awake is a second where you might take an unfortunate step and see some geriatric coprophiliac eating his lunch and polishing his knob with twenty-grit sandpaper he found in a dumpster next to the literal clown from whom he bought figurative magic. You might wonder why, but in doing so, you’ve already failed by assuming that the answer might make any sense to anyone who doesn’t spend the bulk of their time eating shit.

It’s too close to the edge, here; too easy to look down and lose your mind.