With Regards to The Homeless Lady on The Corner

Dear Homeless Lady,

I walk passed you every day. I have done so since late June, 2007. You have never asked me for change. You have never gotten in my way.

We have never exchanged a glance. We have never had a moment. You have not even politely feigned interest in me, and I have likewise not returned the same un-favor that you haven't given me.

I've noticed that you have a blue jacket. It looks like you purchased it at R.E.I. I enjoy R.E.I., though I really can't afford it.

Homeless Lady, if you got that jacket at R.E.I, did you not also notice that they have tents, kitchenware, showers, pots, pans, sinks, grills, and literally anything else you can think of or not think of in a convenient fold-up-all-weather-all-situation packaging?

Are you concerned about bear attack? No worries, they have bear-spray at R.E.I. You got your jacket from there. The blue all-weather one that you have. In fact, the jacket itself is probably bear-retardant. Most things at R.E.I come stock with some level of bear-retardancy.

I do not own one of these jackets.

What is it that you do all day? I see you reading the paper, A paper I should say. I don't know which it is. Maybe it's a paper from that fateful day when your husband and only child died from food poisoning after a post-soccer-practice trip to McDonald's. Rightfully so, your whole world was torn asunder, and now you walk around like Robert DeNiro in "Awakenings" (he didn't walk around in that movie. he sat there, vacant and vacuous, just like you. All fucking cool and shit with your R.E.I. jacket).

Homeless Lady, Do. I. Need. To. Call. Robin. Williams. To. Come. And. Fix. You?

I. Don't. Have. His. Number.

I've left this note here by your two rolling suitcases full of what is probably the contents of your food-poisoned and deathly dead child's bedroom where you let him eat beef until he died.

Do you hug his old Teddy Ruxpin every night before you fall asleep to the chime of 7 bells? Do you whisper to yourself, "it was just a happy meal..." You make me sick.

Here's my point. I left this note here to tell you that I'm taking your jacket. Tomorrow.

Fuck you. You don't deserve it,

- Your Dead Son and Husband from Hell's Post Office