I am not a good neighbour #bestofmissteenussr

{#BestOfMissteenussr ~ originally published Nov 2016}

I grew up dreaming that as an adult I would own a house. As of today, that particular dream has not come true. And probably never will. (I also dreamed about being Mrs. Corey Haim and filling out a B cup so I should be used to my dreams being doused in animal urine and set aflame in a compost bin filled with huntsman spiders.)

I choose to not be sad about this perceived loss for a few reasons. Honestly, I struggle to keep our small 2 bedroom apartment organized and clean. Basically, a floor gets mopped if something gross spills on it, otherwise I “spot clean” aka crouch down, hock a polite loogie onto the small sticky spot and wipe it up absentmindedly with a lemon-scented wipe.

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If I had more than 900 feet to manage, I would fail. I just don't have or want to acquire the life skills to own a house. Screwdrivers are delicious drinks, not a tool stored in a gritty oily toolbox. (I just gagged.) I thrive in the arts. I could destroy you in a pop culture war of wills. I love drinks that are complicated and ice cream that is too expensive. I take cabs. I don't like the outside a whole lot. Bugs that invade my personal space will be murdered. I am 100% a city mouse.

Hell yes, we would love more space and a backyard to ignore our kid in, but we both know that means grass to mow, weird sounds to investigate, the potential for big expensive things to blow up, roof shit, pipe shit, plumbing shit and all the other things that can go wrong when you own a home that Pinterest doesn’t tell you about. Sure, it shows me all the porch furniture porn I can handle, but nowhere does that site mention warped wood rot or surprise wasp nests that pulse to the beat of the meat you would shit in your drawers upon discovery.