This blog (god, I really hate the word blog)is slowly turning into my thoughts on Portland and its seedy subculture and its homeless. Which is fine. I have horrible long-term memory anyway, so this will help when I look back twenty years from now with waves of nostalgia. And most stories will begin with this line:
So I was waiting for the bus...
When a guy walked up to me, opened his wallet, looked at me and asked, "Are you under 18?"
I looked straight ahead and answered loudly, "Yup."
He shrugged and walked away. What does this mean? I'm genuinely curious. And I kind of wish I had said no just to see what his proposition was. Now I'll never know. Perhaps we'll meet again, on a foggy day, on bus #9, looking for love in all the wrong places...
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