The Y is one of those funny places that depending on the branch you go to,  is either somewhere you brag about going to, or somewhere where you lie about. The one in Hamilton is the latter. The building itself is dark and dingy, and the sidewalk surrounding it is always  peppered with twice used cigarette butts.  Just walking past it, one gets the feeling that it is a place where only the most downtrodden of citizens spend their time. If you ever find yourself unlucky enough to have to pass through the beer and piss splattered door you find yourself in a place that somewhat resembles an underfunded correctional facility; faded mint wallpaper and brownish orange tile paired with a graying stucco ceiling and wire inlay glass. The people inside seem to carry this depressing sentiment too, as if the building were sucking away any remaining hope they had, leaving them to endlessly inhale the stench of a thousand perfumes and cleaners in the flickering florescent light. 

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