CANDY. Terry Richardson’s Diary
Can I get real for a second? I can? Okay, thanks.
Here’s the deal: I reserve very little head space for the homeless.
I never (ever) spare my change and never (ever) make eye contact.
Yeah, yeah, it’s not always their fault.
Okay, fine, we all came into this world samezies.
Blah, blah, circle of mother fucking life, I’m a bad person.
But I want you to know that I feel, like really feel, for those vagrant lost boys (read: dirty teens / grown ass adults with slumdogs and face tats). I don’t know man, but something about them takes me straight to sadtimes in a serious way. Maybe it’s because I secretly fear I’m only a few reckless ATM withdrawals away from completely failing at life to the point where my only remaining option is to plop a fresh duffel down next to them so I can argue all slurry tongued about park bench dibs and cigarette butts until it’s time to sleep under a newly erected gentrification station with my eyes open.
You think I’m kidding, but just last night I passed two of them on my way to grab a cheap Italian cookie (or 3) from DeRobertis Pasticceria and by the time I got to the bakery I was so full up on visions of life failures that I bought 2 chocolate hazelnut meringues just for the VLBs. Then the three of us had this really lovely exchange:
VLBs: ..slur slurry slur pat pat patting our ugly slumdog slur pat sneeze.
Me: ..HEY. ..these . . . these are just. ..HERE. ..they’re cookies. ..BYE.