The Fishbowl on the Outskirts of Hell

I live in what is probably one of the rougher parts of the city. First‑floor apartment. Street view on one side, driveway and neighboring buildings on the other. A full panoramic experience. It’s basically a fishbowl—except instead of tropical fish, it’s me, trying not to make eye contact with anyone who might recognize the apartment from a previous chapter of their criminal history.

And that’s not paranoia. A well‑known drug dealer lived here before me. Which means once a week, like clockwork, someone knocks looking confused and disappointed that I’m not holding whatever today’s special happens to be. My life had already crashed and burned before I landed here, so it feels fitting that I washed up on the outskirts of hell—affordable rent included.

When I moved in, the place felt lonely, so I got two cats. I named them Karma and Jinx, because irony is cheaper than therapy and I figured maybe the universe would get the hint. At first I didn’t have a TV or cable, so there wasn’t much to do except look out the windows. And let me tell you—there is always something happening outside my windows.

Next door is a convenience store that sells nips, a smoke shop, and a dispensary. Basically a one‑stop shop for poor life choices. The parking lot is always packed. Middle of the day. Middle of the night. Middle of what I assume are very bad decisions. I’m told this is where the deals go down, which makes sense because the police never patrol these streets. Why would they? Everyone seems very busy already.

The street itself is where the real entertainment happens. Several people love to dance in traffic. Not near traffic—in it. No concern for oncoming cars. Drivers just swerve around them like this is a normal obstacle course and not someone tweaking out on the drug of the day, vibing to music only they can hear. Sometimes they bring speakers. Sometimes they bring confidence. The music is usually a mix of rap and… really bad rap.

I stay in the shadows. Not because I’m shy, but because being seen feels like volunteering. Watching feels safer than participating. If they don’t know I exist, they can’t decide I’m interesting. Or useful. Or a target. The chaos outside doesn’t expect anything from me—and that’s the most comforting part.

So I watch. Quietly. From behind the glass. In my fishbowl. On the outskirts of hell.

There’s never a dull moment down here. At least the rent is low and the chaos is free.

From the hood, with love,

K.