Our house is a house that moves
Well here I am. Been here for a week, actually. No, even more, a week and two days. The walls of the living room are still naked and in need of some paintjob, so does the kitchen. The backyard is a mess of tools, buckets of dirt and other funky things like a toilet bowl I spent 2 hours scrubbing, and have clean as an Amish's arsehole, only to see my father break it when putting it back in place. So now I have a brand new one (toilet, not Amish arsehole.), and an old throne in the garden.
The bathroom, while we're at it, is a bloody mess. New bathtub, still wrapped in paper, lying against the opposite wall, tools everywhere, so I have to try not to break an ankle on a hammer or screwdriver when taking a shit. I have to take baths at my parents', too, since no bathroom, not even a sink, yet. There's still the kitchen sink, but I've always had a sort of unconscious loathe of cleaning myself where I clean the dishes.
But over all that, I'm home. I'm fucking home. It's my place, my walls, my messy basement, my battlefield of a backyard, my corny neighbourhood. Plus I have a refrigerator, now. It's weird to say, but in the apartment I used to rent there was a fridge, but no refrigerator. I could have bought one, but I knew I wouldn't have stayed there for years. And you know, you take the refrigerator to the new place, but you need to buy a fridge, now, then the refrigerator dies on you, and you're back to having only a fridge. Anyway, all that to say that I'm freaken happy to have a refrigerator to have ice to put in my drinks. Really, you can't be in the 21st century with no ice to put in your Picon-White Wine.
I'm home. Repeat.
The bathroom, while we're at it, is a bloody mess. New bathtub, still wrapped in paper, lying against the opposite wall, tools everywhere, so I have to try not to break an ankle on a hammer or screwdriver when taking a shit. I have to take baths at my parents', too, since no bathroom, not even a sink, yet. There's still the kitchen sink, but I've always had a sort of unconscious loathe of cleaning myself where I clean the dishes.
But over all that, I'm home. I'm fucking home. It's my place, my walls, my messy basement, my battlefield of a backyard, my corny neighbourhood. Plus I have a refrigerator, now. It's weird to say, but in the apartment I used to rent there was a fridge, but no refrigerator. I could have bought one, but I knew I wouldn't have stayed there for years. And you know, you take the refrigerator to the new place, but you need to buy a fridge, now, then the refrigerator dies on you, and you're back to having only a fridge. Anyway, all that to say that I'm freaken happy to have a refrigerator to have ice to put in my drinks. Really, you can't be in the 21st century with no ice to put in your Picon-White Wine.
I'm home. Repeat.