A Fish Has No Word For Water: A punk homeless San Francisco memoir
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The soup kitchen made us pray before they let us eat.
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Those who are hated are always more human than those who hate them.
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If conservative, religious, anti-gay, racist, embarrassed-about-sex people hadn’t been the ones making decisions about human sexuality, morality, and disease treatment in my country, Little Joe and I could’ve walked the long road of friendship together.
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“God, what the hell is it with sex,”
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“You should’ve heard them go off on gay people,” I was venting now. “They’re like obsessed with gay sex. As if gay and sex were the same thing.” “It is to them,” Ashley said. “And lots of people. If they knew how boring our gay friends are,” she laughed. “It’s a fucked up way to keep someone afraid, or not in control of their lives,” I said, nodding, then shaking my head. “I just feel like everywhere I go, practically everything bad I see happening to people leads back to people being made so afraid of sex, of their own fucking bodies ... it’s insane. Like how we could practically stop the ...more
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“Do you believe in karma?” I asked my friends. Jess looked at me. “Like good shit happens to you when you just make sure to be a good person?” “Yeah.” “Nope.” “Really?” “Too many assholes who do evil shit are running around doing just fine. So, nope.”
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America’s deteriorating middle class flowed around me. Pointedly ignoring me. They paid their rent on time, they ate branded cereal, they believed everyone’s circumstances were deserved.