CANDY. Terry Richardson’s Diary
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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:
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VLBs: ..slur slurry slur pat pat patting our ugly slumdog slur pat sneeze.
Me: ..HEY. ..these . . . these are just. ..HERE. ..they’re cookies. ..BYE.
VLBs: ..COOOOOOKIES!
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The end.