It occurs to me that I have never blogged from Soma before. So have. At. It.
Homeless and jobless. But not desperate. And not necessarily homeless. I have friends. Lots of them. Many of them have couches. This town doesn't want to see me go. Neither do I.
People in relationships have expressed interest in me. Flattering, but generally disgruntling. Still, it's nice to know that multiple people consider me highly datable. Or at least the potential greatest friend ever. It's always nice to know some think so highly of me.
And apparently many are thinking highly of me. Highly enough to put up with me living in their apartments. Sleeping on their couches. Sleeping on their floors. Using their showers. Eating their food. Drinking their booze. I have fucking fantastic friends.
In other news: I've gone vegetarian. Slaughterhouse got to me in a way that PETA could not. Gail Eisnitz pushed me over the edge because of her constant description of the slaughterhouse floor, which is the most filthy surface in existence. Workers forced to relieve themselves there because they aren't offered a bathroom break. Blood. Guts. Excrement. Pus. Ruptured abscesses. Rot. Animals in the process of being processed into unrecognizable meat morsels fall onto it occasionally in the process. Workers shackle them right back up. A fallen animal is a lost profit, despite the fact that a single slaughterhouse in America today makes about three times the amount of all meat produced nationally in 1939. America exports quite a lot of meat throughout the world. It is the world's slaughterhouse. America wears a flimsy butcher's apron and is covered in scars because proper safety precautions would require lost profit in the form of internal investment and drastically slower lines. Speed is money. Some die. Henry Ford would have wanted it this way, I'm sure.