More writing, a another product of not studying for my finals.

Turning the city corner, I was approached by an older gentleman. One who perhaps had seen better days. His hair was long and unkempt, his coat shabby with holes. His shoes, worn with a hole for his right baby toe. 

“Miss,” he said, “can you spare thirty-five cents?” I paused and looked at this man, who on many occasions, I had simply ignored. “Sir, see these two hands, they represent my being. Those calluses, from hard work,” I said. “See this body here, it has seen nights without sleep whilst I toil into the morn. Though tired and worn, it eagerly awaits its next venture, and trial.” Placing my hands on my hips, I looked into his eyes and said, “Hard working, I stand before you, yet these pockets remain empty as I venture through an academic field.”

He cocked his head to the right and said, “So why didn’t you just say you were broke bitch?” 

But seriously, we have several random homeless people around Temple University, who ask for random amounts of change, or call you baby. Someone should do a documentary about it, but that person would have to be real brave…