Sometimes I guess all you need to feel at home is a bath mat. Warm fuzziness between you and some else's cold floors. Linoleum cock blocker of sort. I met a neighbor today. Spot's biped. Spot is the Boston Terrier equivalent of Earnhardt reincarnated. Last night we were pretty sure we were being attacked by the fastest raccoon on record, then the "SPOT" screaming commenced and I realized that I was safe and no longer needed lay down my life and heroically tackle a rabid 300 mph raccoon to save my dog.
Spot's mom was missing at least 4 of the major 8 on the dental front. She welcomed me to the neighborhood, excused her appearance since she had just removed her teeth and proceeded to warn me about the crackhead around the corner. Pot...Kettle...Black. I endured one cop / n epitaph story with a straight face and peaced out. I asked Roger on the walk home to remind me we needed to get out of the trailer park and to floss before bed.
At the same time I try to remember to never assume you know some one's story. You have no idea why or how people manage to end up where they are...and it makes you a raging asshole to assume. Maybe her story is as interesting or as boring as mine...Maybe so is the crack head's. Don't get me wrong, I'm by no means ubber empathetic. I just know that not every book can be judged by it's trailer park squatting cover.
It's good to know that a fuzzy green bath mat makes you feel grounded. And it's good to know that every step and every person in your life is there for a reason...some kind of stepping stone to get you to the next place where the fuzzy mat makes it feel like home...at least for a while.
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