I Will Soon Be Another Statistic
*Whew.* I am wiped the fu*k out. It seems we only talked yesterday. So so so much to get you up to speed on. Alas, I haven’t the energy. So we’ll begin with the house.
The house. The primary reason I will be unable to get you anything or take you anywhere for the next 3 decades. The secondary reason being that, well, we just met. I want to get to know who’s that special person on the ‘inside’ first.
Yes, it is mine. I have grabbed myself a little piece of something American. Home ownership. Now, if I could trade it for something a little less American. Like the opportunity to get the hell outta this country and work at a job I actually love.
But this post is about my new home. I’ll spare you the details of the uneventful closing. But my agent, Kevin Mackessy, employed by Keller Williams, opted to take a personal week in Vegas rather then man-up and show up to my closing. Can't say I blame him though. I overlooked my work responsibilities four times last year to go to Vegas. Got drunk and saw boobies each time. But remember, we're not here today to criticize my work ethic. Are we?
Onward.
You know how they say that behind the glamour of every major purchase, there’s a hidden surprise? A surprise that clearly answers the question of why the previous owner was getting rid of the item in the first place? You know what I’m talking about? Like a used car, a garage sale item, or a significant other? Well, I’ve found the flaw in this house. Static electricity.
The static electricity in this house is Un. Fu*king. Baaaaalevable. I have been painting all week so I have removed all of the wall faceplates. Not sure that matters at this point. I’ll admit it’s funny as hell to walk around in your socks or slippers and shock your unsuspecting ailing grandparents. But when it happens to you, it ain’t so funny now. Is it?
This is how bad it is. I was holding my cell phone as I was walking upstairs and as I rounded the corner to turn on the bathroom light, *ZAP*. An instantaneous puff out of the front of my pant legs, mid shin level, and the pleasant, soothing chime of my phone resetting itself.
Sound bad? This is how bad it is. Sunday, after my parents left (ooh, you know what they brought me as a house-warming gift? Rags, plastic cups and a roll of toilet paper those silly kids, picture coming soon), I was walking into the kitchen and as I reached for the triple wall light switch, *ZAP*. And not the kind of pussy *zap* that you would normally get in anywhere on planet Earth, but the kind of *ZAP* that you hear when a bug flies into a bug zapper. Or when lightning strikes near your house. I remember this one in particular, which is surprising ‘cause most of them seem to cause me to stop thinking in English for a few minutes. But this one by the kitchen; oh fu*k. I remember waking up, the feeling of soiled undergarments and a sandy, sleepiness, faint tingling feeling in my right arm. It seems this particular lightning storm had shorted out my pacemaker. Wait. Did I say ‘pacemaker’? I meant babymaker. Yeah. Now my shit’s all messed up. Short circuited. Spontaneously turning on and off. Like a young, middle-school-aged boy.
My little ticker just can't handle home ownership much longer.
The house. The primary reason I will be unable to get you anything or take you anywhere for the next 3 decades. The secondary reason being that, well, we just met. I want to get to know who’s that special person on the ‘inside’ first.
Yes, it is mine. I have grabbed myself a little piece of something American. Home ownership. Now, if I could trade it for something a little less American. Like the opportunity to get the hell outta this country and work at a job I actually love.
But this post is about my new home. I’ll spare you the details of the uneventful closing. But my agent, Kevin Mackessy, employed by Keller Williams, opted to take a personal week in Vegas rather then man-up and show up to my closing. Can't say I blame him though. I overlooked my work responsibilities four times last year to go to Vegas. Got drunk and saw boobies each time. But remember, we're not here today to criticize my work ethic. Are we?
Onward.
You know how they say that behind the glamour of every major purchase, there’s a hidden surprise? A surprise that clearly answers the question of why the previous owner was getting rid of the item in the first place? You know what I’m talking about? Like a used car, a garage sale item, or a significant other? Well, I’ve found the flaw in this house. Static electricity.
The static electricity in this house is Un. Fu*king. Baaaaalevable. I have been painting all week so I have removed all of the wall faceplates. Not sure that matters at this point. I’ll admit it’s funny as hell to walk around in your socks or slippers and shock your unsuspecting ailing grandparents. But when it happens to you, it ain’t so funny now. Is it?
This is how bad it is. I was holding my cell phone as I was walking upstairs and as I rounded the corner to turn on the bathroom light, *ZAP*. An instantaneous puff out of the front of my pant legs, mid shin level, and the pleasant, soothing chime of my phone resetting itself.
Sound bad? This is how bad it is. Sunday, after my parents left (ooh, you know what they brought me as a house-warming gift? Rags, plastic cups and a roll of toilet paper those silly kids, picture coming soon), I was walking into the kitchen and as I reached for the triple wall light switch, *ZAP*. And not the kind of pussy *zap* that you would normally get in anywhere on planet Earth, but the kind of *ZAP* that you hear when a bug flies into a bug zapper. Or when lightning strikes near your house. I remember this one in particular, which is surprising ‘cause most of them seem to cause me to stop thinking in English for a few minutes. But this one by the kitchen; oh fu*k. I remember waking up, the feeling of soiled undergarments and a sandy, sleepiness, faint tingling feeling in my right arm. It seems this particular lightning storm had shorted out my pacemaker. Wait. Did I say ‘pacemaker’? I meant babymaker. Yeah. Now my shit’s all messed up. Short circuited. Spontaneously turning on and off. Like a young, middle-school-aged boy.
My little ticker just can't handle home ownership much longer.
