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This wariness was heightened when a few months ago a homeless man francesca dimauro in the Lower East Side, right around the corner where I used to live, stabbed a guy my age. So I’m not about to get shanked francesca dimauro while I’m standing there looking for a francesca dimauro dollar bill. Right now, I’m at home in Philly, and (almost) every morning (read: early afternoon) when I wake up, I head down to the Oregon Diner for breakfast. It’s only a few blocks from where I live, but hey – I’m fat – so I drive. There I get my usual meal: creamed chipped beef (if you don’t know what creamed chipped beef is, my sadness for you could fill an ocean). I then take the CCB back to my dad’s house, where I eat it in peace and quiet. After parking in the lot of the diner, I was approached by a homeless guy, the first of three that would ask me for money (god I miss being home).
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