BulimicSpacePug

    I am a fraud. We are all frauds on this street corner, standing out in the late October wind holding cardboard signs that advertise good Christian girls and clean-and-sober men who don't exist. This is how we spend our Sundays: sluggish, hungover, feigning a weary optimism as we vie to con the church hypocrites into opening their hearts and their wallets. We have a system. Rand stays watch on the curb while I run the lights, calling out police cars as he sees them and cleaning up the traffic that I miss. This goes on every Sunday at eleven until the sun dips low in the sky and the traffic becomes irritated and unwilling to heed our pleas

    I am a fraud. We are all frauds on this street corner, standing out in the late October wind holding cardboard signs that advertise good Christian girls and clean-and-sober men who don't exist. This is how we spend our Sundays: sluggish, hungover, feigning a weary optimism as we vie to con the church hypocrites into opening their hearts and their wallets. We have a system. Rand stays watch on the curb while I run the lights, calling out police cars as he sees them and cleaning up the traffic that I miss. This goes on every Sunday at eleven until the sun dips low in the sky and the traffic becomes irritated and unwilling to heed our pleas