Hobo Diaries

prologue

prologue ;
"Cigarrette And Journal Stains Will Keep Me Sane"

• • •

OWNER'S INFORMATION PAGE

"Hobo Journal"
(not diary. ugh.)

Incase of loss please return to:
Owner name: Silver.
Contact information: i just sold my phone so i don't think you can contact me. (i'm sure you can't). but you can find me in Oavad Pub (Google map can perhaps find the place. Perhaps.), or the strip club next to it.
As a reward: no. fuck you. give it back. because there is no way i will spend money on a journalnapped journal.

• • •

xx/xx/15

This is not a diary. This is a journal. (Note to self, reread that in a twelve year old voice.)

Hello journal,
Actually, I did not plan on embarking on this experiment. But feeling poetic and rather, witty and challenged in response to a song lyric; "I need another story; Something to get off my chest. My life is kinda boring; need something that I can confess," and in response to banging a chick (who was actually a reverend's daughter) all night and hiding from her forever.

(Also, she may have wished to have a "A Walk To Remember" kind of romance; I, in the other hand, most certainly did not want that kind. Or any kind at all. )

As an introduction to this journal that would probably never be read by anyone else other than me (unless I get super famous), I have decided to live freely.

From now on, I am a tramp.
A free-spirited tramp; away from the riches of his own father.

Most probably, this will be the only page that will make sense due to lacking of purpose, reasons and ideas for the next pages. And also, I have decided to live next to this pub, named Oavad; mainly because it has nice drinks; nice enough to get drunk and addicted to. This will also be the reason to write in my drunk-self (please do prepare for that).

I will now suck on what is left on my cigarette.

-Sith L. Verner
(silver.)

• • •

SILVER shuts his diary (journal.) close. He hated writing his real name but he just sucked it in, just like his cigarrette.

He stared at the journal, a 500 page blank notebook with a thick leather, brown cover that he dug up from the attic a few years ago. It was a refillable, brand-less and a vintage kind of journal stained with an alcohol scent and little cigar and attic dust. He stared at the journal for a few moments until the idea of living life as a homeless person has finally sinked in.

He never really liked home anyway, and he was never really home. And it never felt like home.
It was just a house and in it was a few people he didn't care about.

He blew off the smoke from his mouth. It was like sighing.
Silver leans against the cold, cement wall outside of Oavad pub. His back feels cold imediently, but he just slides himself down, his back still leaning against the cold cement wall. He now sits, crossing his legs and grabbing onto his backpack. He stuffs the cigarette pack and his journal inside his bag.

He finishes off his cigar, and after pushing the left out part to the ground, he threw it away. Although he was sober, he couldn't think straight right after he shuts his journal and finishes smoking. It was two of the short list of things that would keep him sane.

After finishing all the folded hundred dollar bills he randomly picked up (and still never counted) at the ceramic jars at the house, what would he do next? Would he beg for money on the streets? Would he try to get a job? Silver honestly did not know what would happen next after settling in this corner. It was a corner that was now his. Although filled with silence and the smell of alcohol and the smoke of his cigar, it was his. It was cold in that particular corner next to Oavad pub's tiny trash place, and spring blowing off the winter was a shitload of lies because it still felt like winter. And it still felt like it would snow anytime, and it still felt like he was still happy, just like how it was back in winter.

Oavad pub was having such a slow day, just like always, and almost no one ever passes by after 7. The universe had probably decided tonight that Silver would be so bored out of his mind that he would actually sleep in the midst of a young evening instead of shuffling inside a disco bar and showing his new and improved (by improved, he means renaming them; like "The Milking Farmer" just like of Bailey from The Suite Life On Deck- others would disagree about his 'improvement', entirely) dance moves.
Or going to a strip club and finally meeting Barbara The Hooker with the pink everything on (as stated, excitingly and oddly, arousing-ly, in the fliers distributed earlier in the streets).

The universe had indeed decided.

And so, he sleeps.

• • •

[a|n];

Thanks for giving this story a chance!

Just to make things clear;
This story is not created to mock, insult, or belittle homeless people.