My auntie is an hobophobic.

I’m livin’ in a new city city and it ain’t easy. I got no job, no house, no clean undies, no nothin’.

I walk around the city all day trying to find places I can sit down and relax and look arty while I pen troubled thoughts and crisp observations in my $30 Moleskine. Sometimes it’s a cafe, sometimes it’s a mall, sometimes it’s a McDonalds with free wifi (it’s mostly this one). But of all the places I like to wang out, I never thought it would be the Library that would be my undoing. Libraries are like churches, taking in the needy and protecting us from the big bad world outside. Students flock to them to escape the pressures of uni bars and table tennis in the dormitory foyer, foreigners seek asylum from the woes of a strange tongue, and almost anyone can go in there chill out on the bean bags in the children’s section. This was my plan, and it had worked for me in the past. Today however, it was raining, and one thing I know about rain is that it makes you wet. And one thing about being wet is that you look about 50-60% more homeless than you did when you were dry. So I walked in to the Library, wet and bedraggled and desperately seeking the solace of dry air and a bean bag, I slopped in past the security dudes and sat down and before I’d turned the first page of my book there was a tall security man over my shoulder, telling me I had to declare my bag. I looked around at the 15 other dry people with laptop bags and satchels and briefcases and most importantly umbrellas and said ” Really? ” . He said ” Yes, you’ll need to come to the desk. “. I followed him to the desk and the man at the desk started to lose his shit at me and wanted me to empty my bag and roll it up for some reason, and I kept saying ” But it’s got all my stuff in it ” so he retorted ” Well you have to get a locker ” and I patted my pockets and said ” Dude I aint got no cash ” and then victory flashed in his eyes and he said to me ” YES, WE GET A LOT OF PEOPLE WITH NO MONEY COMING IN HERE, AND YOU HAVE TO STAY OUT THERE “. He pointed to the verandah where a bunch of good looking but blatantly foreign tourists were sitting, engrossed in their pay-by-minute internet. I was humiliated. Did I look that bad? Cast out with the Germans and the Spaniards and the “Do you know veer ve can stey et ze operah houzes??” It was heavy. I couldn’t enjoy the city for the whole rest of the day, I felt unwanted, trash, I felt ugly. I felt like… a foreigner. I longed for some cleaner pants and a shirt whose buttons didn’t come undone, and a shaved face, and less hair, and to smell good. So I went to David Jones. By complete coincidence they were having some sort of christmas party so I partook of the free champagne and felt a whole lot better. 

Oh and I asked my Auntie and Uncle if I could stay with them until my job starts up and they sent me this. Do you think it’s gnarly? 

I DO WERK