Home is where your Home is

To be perfectly honest, I haven’t had a real home since I lived at Home. With my parents. As in a grown up home. With a linen closet. With a yard to mow. With a drawer just for dish towels. With nice plates for guests. Each home I’ve had since then has had traces of a grown up home. You throw knife block on a counter, drop 3 backs at Target on a thing that should hold mail but will instead hold old programs, receipts and 5 year old birthday cards. Hang some curtains and pretend you’ve got a mortgage to pay. Instead my money goes to rent and flights and shows and shoes and booze and sushi and books. While it might appear externally, to some, that I am living the dream, as it were, I sometimes fantasize about having a house. It mainly happens when I’m off on one of these out of town writing things, and get a taste of it. So while I was previously motivated purely by wanting to really Stick it to all the people who thought I was lame in high school, I now have a newer, firmer reason to (financially) succeed: I need to buy a house and it needs to be on Martha’s Vineyard and it needs to possible be one of these.

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