THE HOMELESS AND THE STRIPPER

On my drive to the club I have to pass under a bridge where the homeless live. At the time when I pass them they all gather together to put out their card board mattresses, they lay their sleeping bags out, some of them have a grocery cart, some have their loyal dogs with them. When I see them, their dogs, their lives … I want to cry. But I have to hold my tears back, because it would make my mascara run and ruin my makeup. I cannot work with ruined makeup, I have to look perfect. The pain of seeing them, their loneliness, the rough conditions they live in, the loyalty of their flea and heat tormented dogs, the hunger and sadness that’s part of their reality hurts me deep to my bones. I wonder, how God picks us to be so fortunate to have a house. I wonder, why my dogs are allowed to live in paradise in an air conditioned house with gourmet, fresh food I prepare for them and others live on the hot pavement or are even more unfortunate and do not even have an owner? I wonder why it’s all so gruesome? I wonder why I am not rich enough to make more of a difference? I wonder why it’s all the way it is and how I could help more while I am just trying to help me and my family? I wonder how many nights I would have to dance, how many stilettos I would have to wear out to change more lives … I wish I could work more shifts, have more money, have more power to make the world a better, less gruesome place. I wonder …

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