If you give a vagabond a mattress, chances are she’s going to want some sheets to go with it. When you give her the sheets, she’s probably going to demand at least a 300-thread count. She can’t subject her un-moisturized skin to a rough feel, after all. One that could hinder it from the potential to allure a man that might be interested in caressing her for the evening, long enough to allow her to stay for a full night.

And if you give a vagabond those 300-thread count sheets, she’s definitely going to want a cervical pillow to rest her head on for optimal comfort. After all, it’s a lot of work moving that neck back and forth to give head to various people who may or may not lend you a less sexual favor in return. Like the courtesy of using his shower or maybe even access to a new toothbrush. If you give a vagabond admittance to your bathroom, it’s likely she’s going to expect to stay in it putting on her whore’s makeup for however long she wants. So don’t expect to gain entry to it or be anywhere on time if you’re depending heavily on hygiene for your daily success.

Once the vagabond has exited from the bathroom–looking very attractive in that beaten-down ruffian sort of way–she’s liable to want a snack. Looking one’s best and relying on several coats of eyeliner and perfume for at least two to four days before finding another kind soul to let her use his apartment can be very exhausting. It’s a lost art, that of the vagabond’s existence, especially in New York, where once it was considered endlessly yuppie to have one’s own place to live.

But she won’t want just any snack. You’ve got to give her something a little fancy, like brie on baguette bread with at least a mid-grade pinot noir. She’s been living off the Rudy’s and Alligator Lounge diet all these days and will want something besides the low-brow quality of hot dogs and pizza that just so happens to come with any purchase of a pitcher and/or drink. And once she’s polished off the more high-end fare available from your cabinet, she might want to cap it off with a bit of dessert. This could include both cake and you.

When she’s sated her appetite at the most literal level, she’s going to start thinking about how long it’s been since she’s been able to use the internet for a concentrated block of time. If you give a vagabond the password to your computer, she’s inevitably going to want to show you what a search for “hot homeless woman porn” turns up, and how she’s in roughly 75% of all the videos available. She has to make some form of income, too, you know.

Once she’s caught up on her celebrity gossip and online shopping (she tells you to keep a lookout in the mail for the next few days as she’s expecting a Corona bathing suit from eBay that she’s eagerly looking forward to sporting on the beach, a place where no one can be so easily labeled as “vagabond”–where, in short, all ghetto aesthetics are created equal), she’s going to suggest watching a movie or TV show.

Before you know it, she’s spent the night again, and the same cycle repeats until and if you feel harsh enough to say with the utmost certitude, “You’ve got to get the fuck out.” But you know that you won’t.

If you let a vagabond into your home, it’s very likely you’re going to have to let her into your heart, too. You will have to take pity on her poor, inept soul. Her inability to live life as a normal human being. What dreamless people tend to call “adult.” But the vagabond is the ultimate and original millennial: forever young and forever tied to nothing and no one but herself. Unless, that is, you’re willing to turn over your lease.