I have never owned a house.
I have lived in two. The bank owned them - they let me live there as long as I paid them every month. And behaved.
I have never owned a house outright. I call them "house" because it is not a home unless you own it.
What the fuck is up with that? I have spent 43 years living in these houses. Houses that belonged to the bank - many banks, actually. These fuckers trade mortgages like baseball cards. No rhyme or reason, no consideration for the occupant. They forced me to scamper around like a cockroach exposed to the light so I could keep making mortgage payments. Not dignified at all.
43 years living in other peoples' houses, basically paying "rent", since I could never finalize the purchase.
Not much of a legacy.
"I am not even close to the guy I thought I'd turn out to be" - Tommy "Birdman" Rowland from the movie Beautiful Girls.
I come back to this quote time and time again (no solutions, remember?)
20 or 30 years ago I would have predicted that, at the age of 68, I would be fully and comfortably retired. Plenty of money in the bank, no worries, a lifetime of accomplishments to gloat back upon, peace of mind, living free and easy and enjoyably. With earned respect.
The reality?
I work a humiliating part-time job. I will die working that humiliating part-time job because we will never sell this house and we will never stop paying for it.
I eat Spam, cat food, and no name potato chips. When I really want a treat, I indulge in beef jerky. The chewy, tasteless kind.
I drink Natty Lite and Ten High bourbon.
Twice a year Carol and I go out for pizza.
I drive a 2020 Hyundai Elantra. I will be driving the same 2020 Hyundai Elantra in 2035.
I wear baggy pants and non-descript shirts.
I sleep like shit, every part of my body hurts, and I am 25 pounds overweight.
I watch daytime Soaps and read True Crime magazine.
But, what the hell, I gave it a shot. Right?
And it's not over, right? I am still alive. I can still turn this thing around.
I believe the captain of the Titanic said the same thing.
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