People keep confusing me with an eastern European doorstep, perhaps a stoop in a Hungarian alley. Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the rolled floor mat in bold colors which hugs me so carelessly that screams gypsy. But now homeless winos keep pissing on me because they think that’s what I’m here for. Like I’m some kind of elongated urinal cake in designer hues. I can’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t a homeless wino pissed on me. I mean, I don’t mind being pissed on. Admittedly, I’d rather be shat on by raccoons, but if you’re not a wino and you have your own address, please, by all means, take a piss.