Some people call me “foxboy”. I think it started because I usually have a dead fox or some other small animal in my freezer. I am turning 25 years old in a week. I have been wandering this earth for the better part of those years. It was only until I landed in Portland three weeks ago that I felt like I was home. Dear Penny Scout, I had no idea that there were others like me out there, that is, until I found you on the internet from my windowless bedroom, ah-hem, cage, in Brooklyn. It was then I realized why I was so low. I woke up every morning, went through the motions, took a piss and shit my spirit out. I couldn’t fucking breath, emotionally, physically or otherwise. I needed to go out and do what makes me fucking excited about being alive. Learning skills to survive outside of this mess, getting dirty, playing with dead things, playing with alive things, climbing trees and spying on the sleepers who unknowingly pass underneath me. Dear Penny Scout, thanks to you I am not sad anymore. I moved 3000 miles, found home and good people. Urban Scout, I wish I was technically a boy, just so I could look as handsome as you do in a loincloth.
I hope I run into you all in real time!
