Can I even call you my neighbour? Squatter probably more apt but none the less you do sporadically inhabit the house next to mine. You often disappear for indefinite amounts of time but you inevitably end up in your loving (read: enabling) mother’s abode. There you reside all too comfortably with your progenitor’s army of alley cats and insane German boyfriend.

Remember a few months back when you and one of your fine friends broke into the apartments across the street? Ah good times. The police trawled Gordon’s Bay for you knowing full well they couldn’t really do anything to you. You had it all planned out. All the shit you stole was probably sold by that evening and by that night you were probably convulsing from the amount of meth you had smoked.

I often sit and ponder what your story is. How did you spiral into addiction? What was the tipping point? I really do wonder how someone ends up like you. It’s difficult to comprehend that you were normal once; that you were a child just like I was, you weren’t always a meth addict. Your presence jars my middle class sensibilities and I find your plight deeply disquieting.

My meditations on your situation are usually swiftly followed by me checking if all my shit is where I left it. Because, you know, I don’t want you appropriating my possessions in your daily crusade to rustle up drug money. In fact while we’re addressing this issue, could I ask you to not steal my stuff? You haven’t swiped anything yet but I’m just gonna go ahead and preempt any plots you may, or may not, be hatching.

Oh, and I just have to ask. What is your aversion to using the front door? Why would you rather climb onto the roof and climb down into your back garden? It can’t possibly be easier, so I sit in puzzlement as to why the fuck you do it. It’s strange and really doesn’t improve your standing amongst this neighborhoods denizens.

You’re probably, definitely, never gonna read this but I guess this is my letter of goodbye to you. The net has closed in on you here. Folks have grown weary of you and just like any scavenger you’ll probably move onto a place where the food/houses to ransack are more plentiful. Plus, it’s quite clear that the aforementioned crazy German boyfriend dislikes you deeply. I would wish you good luck in your future but I know full well that you are most likely doomed.

Good luck anyway, I suppose. You really need it.

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