Don’t Run
My best friend had pronounced that about me five years ago saying that I was just like a wild pony because when Mr. Right would come along I am apt to run. As I did just the year earlier with my white plastic bag squeezing through the crack in the back window while I hurled up the highway bound for Kansas in my newly found adventures of traveling all by my self. It was in Oct. of 2005 when I was feeling that undesired pressure from a tenant-landlord transitional apt. in St. Petersburg. I had just been commissioned for jury duty and a new call of God for me to run in politics had been a clearly sealed as my final destination given to me in a night vision.
We had just gone through a Thanksgiving with 22 apts. and about 50 men, women and children without any water for three days in a 100 year old apt. bldg. I loved my new family of the other tenants there but I couldn’t stand the injustices of the ma and pa run rip shack.