Adventures in Section 8

Believe it or not, I don’t remember every word that I’ve ever written on my blog.  I mean, nearly 350 posts in and, well, I can’t remember a detail here and there.  For example, have I told you that I live in Section 8 housing? Public housing, for you non-Americans out there?  I mean, think about it- how else would a girl live in an apartment on $200 a month, unless she doesn’t actually pay for the apartment? 

I’m in the suburbs and off the bus line, so people here either have to be with-it enough to own and drive a car, or they eseentially can’t get to anything at all (except the grocery store, which is across a big highway, and about a mile away).  Thus, it’s low-income housing, yes, but it attracts a higher-income population than many public housing areas, as there are no buses.

But oh, the people here.  One guy upstairs has a black lab named Cheyanne who is possibly the smartest and sweetest dog I’ve ever met… and the guy, maybe 60 years old, isn’t bad either.  He doesn’t make me talk and lets me pet the dog as much as I like.

My neighbor, though, pounded on my door wanting to buy my prescription meds from me (once, months ago, he told me that he takes this and that and I said oh okay, I take that too… oops).  Something’s very, very off with him, and I know he drinks beer constantly, and I know he’s been in drug rehab… and do you know me at all?  I’ve literally never even seen a drug or a drunk person.  Never.  He scares me.

Anyway, then there’s John.  John’s an older guy and lives above me with his wife.  He sits outside all day, sometimes wandering around, waiting for people to talk to.  I kind of ignore him because… uh, hi, autism?  He gives me a really hard time about being quiet.  I finally said today, “I’m happy!” meaning that just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I’m miserable and to please let me be!

So last night, Mom was on her way out and he asked her why I have staff coming everyday.  Mom being Mom, said, “Oh, she’s autistic.”  He didn’t know what that was, so she explained.  He wanted to look it up online, so she wrote it down for him (which he lost and had me write it down again today).  She explained that I have issues with communicating and that if I’m being quiet, to please just let me be that way.

I walked out the front door with staff this morning, and John was there.

He greeted me, and then, “Why are you so quiet all the time?! Don’t you like me, eh?!”

*facepalm*, right?  I give up.


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