Farewell, crackies

This morning I woke to the sound of birds. Light traffic hummed in the distance. From somewhere above a toilet flushed. It was lovely. It was quiet. And it was hard to wake up.

I've become crackhead dependent. When you live across the street from a methadone clinic frequented by homeless crackheads who have (presumably) nothing better to do than show up three hours before the clinic opens to squabble and scream and mess with cars you will become conditioned to waking with them, much like the farmer wakes with the rooster. Now that I've moved to the (comparably) peaceful glen of Greenwood I must once again stir at the sound of my alarm clock.

This might throw a wrench in my plan of becoming a sort of gonzo-crackhead reporter, not having a bird's eye view on the crackhead elite from my third floor perch. Don't fret, though. I still work on the same block as my former residence, so all chance of encounter with this intriguing sect of society is not lost.

When I was younger I always thought I'd like to live in a city when I'm still young. I envisioned myself going to museums, book readings, theater- and I did. What I hadn't envisioned and what will definitely leave the most lasting impression is how much a part of my life crackheads would be.

Never enough time, but for now let me describe my favorite breed of crackhead: the sings-to-himself crackhead. This crackhead will flail (crackheads don't walk, exactly) along the sidewalk singing, or sing-talking, at the top of his lungs. I feel this species is the most precious as the subjects typically lack the anger omnipresent among most crackheads. If the Seattle police want to really reduce random crackhead violence they should just give them all ipods to cheer them up in their respective fucked-upedness.

That's all. Just a little tribute to my former neighbors from a well-rested girl.