My pseudonym can be Abbey. I'm named after a Beatles song. I'm homeless. So is my partner of six years. We live in a hotel, one known to have weekly rates and low expectations.
I did not speak to the Census takers ("Point-in-Time," Feb. 3). Neither did anyone else I asked at this particular dive. Not that any of us would have had time for a survey. We all bust our asses 24 hours a day to pay the $250 a week. (We spent a few nights clutching each other in a tent but nobody does that in January if they don't have to.)
We are like hamsters in a damn wheel. How can I save money for a deposit while hemorrhaging money on a roof?
Like all women here, I've begun to sell the very last asset I have. Sooner or later I'll get busted and go to jail but for tonight I have the one I love and a safe space between four walls.
Count me, please! I'm here, too.
(This handwritten letter was delivered by a woman who said she had no money for postage.)