haunt city street corners in search of charity. We view them with a mixture of pity, loathing, and fear. Curiously, we wonder how they descended into such a maelstrom of denial. Some of us wonder if it could befall any unwary person.The ranch hand is here to tell you from personal experience that crawlin' into bed with "homeless" will scare the drawers off ya.
Me and the beautiful bride sold our city house and have been "in process" of building our ranch bunkhouse. Meanwhile, we have been living in a tiny bedroom of the mom-law's house (shudder!).
Due to packing and moving, don't know where anything I own is located (same thing as not owning it). Got no say so over anything. Not the thermostat, menu, toilet paper grade, or TV channel. Due to building the ranch casa, ever durn nickel I got coming is committed to the bank.
Near as I can see, the only difference between your humble ranch hand and them poor miscreants on the street corners is that I do bath on occasion?
Here's the bottom line: Every time I see one from now on I will have to wonder if the nexus to their intersection address was a mother-in-law?
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