About my home.

It's a small, quaint little block with a dead end and rows of mix and match houses. Reds, yellows, bricks and plaster; the houses row up neatly in lines along flowing small hills by a tiny wood perserve. Things are slow as only a lone person or two can be seen walking down the street or a car trying to bypass the red light. Fighting for this small town? Sure, why not. Many people both mean and nice live here. They don't deserve any less than the others. But for my block? No. My block consists of old people being nursed even though they are half dead, the few ignorant parents who don't let their kids grow up, or drug dealers who get paid to hide the stashes in the woods so their buys have a nice Easter egg after searching. Mainly the latter exists on my dead end street. To make my block better, we need to get rid of the sky high hobos and dealers, then we will talk. Should I fight for my home? Of course. To the tooth and nail. My brother, mother, and grandparents live there along with my dogs and lizard.