7 am, alone again. I live in Southeast D.C., which is heavily segregated and underdeveloped. 97 percent black. No sit down restaurants or bookstores until 2012. Now there are one or two places to sit down and have a meal. No coffee shops. Plenty of shootings, stabbings, squalor, illiteracy, diabetes, and kidney failure. Nothing but 7-11’s and Dialysis centers, liquor stores and barber shops. Nice cars though. Black people love nice cars. They will live in a dilapidated apartment complex and replace their broken windows with trash bags, but they won’t drive a cheap, shitty car. They drive brand new Malibus.
I live ten minutes from a bus station, right before you reach the bridge that takes you over the Potomac. I’ve dubbed it the toilet nexus. The shit swirl of the Southeast. All I want is one goddamn coffee shop within walking distance where I can waste my life reading and writing.
Yes, making fun of poor black people is one of the few consolations I have right now. People say you shouldn’t taunt the weak, poor, or disadvantaged. For one thing, I have no money, and I live among these people. For another, fuck anyone who tries to tell others what can or can’t be said. You can not find something funny, but to forbid it because it violates your pious worldview is out of place. You may sarcastically deride the successful all day long, because of course their success is illicit, but you must never slander the poor minorities, cripples, and wretches, for they are pure and holy in their degraded station.