Everything is dirty. And rusty. And probably swimming with carcinogens. Good thing I don’t value my life, otherwise I might be afraid for it.

One look at this place and you’d be forced to do a double take. It’s required; don’t think you have a choice. Flanked on all sides by well-kept, upscale homes, this unsightly blight upon the earth looks more out of place than a sea urchin at a petting zoo.

Strewn about my feet are the mangled remains of rusted out car hulks. Bits and pieces here and there. This place was once an automobile graveyard—a monument to the ghosts of hotrod past. It reeks of motor oil and gasoline.

The sun sears my pale, China doll-like flesh as I bend and scrape the grime away. It’s hard to fight back the thoughts of futility as I pick away at all the decades of abuse and neglect. The phrase “lipstick on a pig” was conceived for such places as this.

Looking around I can see nice houses in every direction. No doubt there’s love in those homes. Here there is only misery and garbage.