So, you probably haven’t even noticed, but I took a bit of a sabbatical from this blog. An extended sabbatical, rather. And you probably have noticed how passive aggressive I am now. But anyway, I quit writing for a long while because I was acting like a kid who lands on that one really huge chute at the top of the Chutes and Ladders board and dramatically yells, “I quit!” all red in the face and storms off upstairs. Everyone else playing the game is kind of relieved, actually now that the little jackass is gone, but someone eventually feels compelled to go up there and coax him back downstairs with ice cream or some shit. I was that jackass. Nobody came upstairs to bribe me with delicious snacks; I just decided on my own that it was time to try again. I felt like Mr. Belvidere without my diary or Oprah without my tequila. It just wasn’t right. I figured I would publish one more entry and that would buy me 3-5 more months of curling myself into a ball and listening to sad woman music.
Since I haven’t chatted with you in so long let me bring you up to speed. It’s been a pretty intense few months. I set my hair on fire purposely. No, just kidding. Actually, I put my house up for sale. But I think I should’ve set my hair on fire instead because that would probably be better in most ways. At least that would be over fairly quickly and culminate in my jumping into a pool or something. The sale of my home, on the other hand, doesn’t seem as though it will ever end. There is literally no end in sight.
I know, I know, it’s really not that bad. I’m just a private person. The thought of strangers traipsing through my house and touching my stuff with their germs and breathing on my stuff with more of their germs gives me anxiety. Are they opening drawers and closets and medicine cabinets? Of freaking course they are! I would, too. People think they want to see inside people’s disgusting habits. The stuff they don’t post on social media or even talk about with their closest friends. But when that actually happens, when you actually discover something like that about someone, you just can’t scrub that out of there. There is no way to purge that from your consciousness. I’m a bit off track since I don’t really think I have anything like that in my medicine cabinet. But you get my point, right? If not, then we can’t continue this relationship anymore. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.
It’s not just the nosy people invading my space, though. I have to keep this house in pristine condition all day every day. People have to feel like they’re walking through a model home. All signs of human life must be erased (or shoved in closets). But people do live here. Two people, a kid and a dog live here. And eat here and poop here. What do you want from me, people? If you want to live in a house that nobody’s pooped in, you’ve come to the wrong place, brother. Maybe I should cross-stitch that onto some 14 count aida and hang it on the front door.
This whole process helps me understand why some homeowners just snatch up all their appliances and copper wiring and get the hell out of Dodge. I won’t do that. But I will fantasize about it every day. And in that fantasy I will move to the forest and live off the land and the animals will be my friends. They will be my friends even though my credit score would be shit because I walked away from my house. Animals don’t care about credit scores or imperfect eyebrows or that I’m afraid of sushi. And the forest animals will also let me win at Chutes and Ladders. Forever and ever.