“It’s like I’m on eggshells all the time. Nothing but stress. ...

“It’s like I’m on eggshells all the time. Nothing but stress. I get $696 a month from social security. I could get more if I pretend to be bipolar like some people I know, but they make you take medicine to get your disability benefits. I’m not going to sit around like a zombie to get extra money. When I pay my bills, I have $30 left over. I can feed myself with 59-cent cans of tuna. I tried one of those food pantries but they aren’t even worth the time. I didn’t even know that pints of milk still existed. The bus drivers in the Bronx are cool so they let me ride for free. So that’s good. I can get around. But I can’t afford for anything to go wrong. Some lady is letting me stay in her place for cheap while she lives with her daughter, so I have a place to live. But it’s rent controlled so I’m not even supposed to be there. Every time I go home it’s like four layers of doom. First I’m terrified that my key won’t work. Then I’m terrified that there’s a letter in my mailbox. Then I’m afraid that the elevator won’t work—but that’s just cause I’m a lazy fuck. And then when I finally get to my apartment, I’m afraid there’s a letter under the door. Nothing but stress. I never feel safe. Every time there’s a knock on the door, I think it’s the end.”