i'm getting used to sleeping in other people's homes, hearing heavy metal music from upstairs, and dog fights beyond the back porch, seeing rusted, broken cars, and men fixing them in states of undress, the beer bottles, barbeques, and cigarette smoke; i'm getting used to sleeping on couches, old futons, with friends, drunk; driving on highways with numbers i can't seem to remember in traffic i've never considered could exist; i'm getting used to the rain and losing the longing for home. i'm slipping into it, forgetting to resist, reaching for the diet coke, the jiffy pop, and the nail polish remover. there is nothing to do but embrace this homelessness, queue for the ferry, and pluck my eyebrows in an effort to control my life.