Don’t tut at homeless people on spice when you’re on depression meds and smashing a bottle of red every night
Homelessness is at epidemic levels in this country.
You only need to take a short walk around any city centre to witness the psychopathic duality of life in the UK today.
There’s people going about their normal daily lives, shopping, choosing a place to eat, or heading to a concert etc.
But look a little closer at the swarm of activity and you’ll notice there are in fact two sets of people, both living together, in an uneasy harmony, yet in stark contrast to each other.
The living dead are amongst us, hobbling about, semi-conscious, contorted into uncomfortable living statues, or asleep on benches just inches away from children playing near a water feature.
This isn’t the zombie apocalypse I envisaged. They don’t want your brains, they, like a lot of us, simply don’t want to fucking be here all the time.
Don’t tut, or roll your eyes. Don’t assume that a patronising 2 minute counselling session will somehow fix them, just leave them be.
They’re on the streets for fuck’s sake. Literally at rock bottom. They can’t go any lower.
I know if I were in that situation and I could make a full day dissappear for a couple of quid I’d be off my fucking tits.
Christ, I struggle with my relatively comfortable life. I’ve not had a drink for thee days in a bid to lose weight and I’ve learnt one thing: It’s only when I’m sober that I know why I drink.
We’re all in this rat race, trapped in one way or another, and we all have our ways of dealing with shit.
You might do Yoga and pop Citralopram, or drink every night, or smoke tonnes of pot.
You might eat like a pig, or just binge watch fucking soaps and get off on gardening.
Well done, you have a more acceptable vice than spice, but that doesn’t give you any fucking right to judge.
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