Mr. President, Please Kill the Homeless Woman Who Lives Outside My Apartment
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Dear Mr. President, Won’t you please kill the homeless woman who lives on a bench on the median strip of the street near my apartment building? She doesn’t bother me. As far as I know, she doesn’t bother anyone else either. The woman who lives in the middle of the street is nice. I like her. Last week, as I was waiting for the traffic signal to change, she beckoned softly from under her pile of soiled blankets, asking for change, and I gave her a ten-dollar bill. I’m not usually that nice. She’s that sympathetic. I pitied her. I’ve watched her decline since spring. As six months dragged by this probably-fiftysomething-year-old woman has deteriorated from “how did someone so normal become homeless?” to talking to herself to severely sunburned to “this person will die this winter.” It was in the high 30s last night and it will only get colder and it is not a…
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