It’s two words I honestly gave up thinking I’d ever type. Not because I didn’t want to. Christ, I want to always move. I want to move until I’m no longer in this damned state anymore. But I had just given up, admittedly.
For over a decade I was in this condo. Tiny thing. About the size of a three car garage. Not a regular three car garage, but the kind of garage that’s called a three car garage but actually has about enough room for two cars to have their doors open at once without hitting each other.
With my first kid, sound was an issue in it. No matter where you were in the house you could hear anyone else. If he was asleep in the bedroom and you sat in the living room gaming, even with headphones, the clicks of the buttons and joysticks were noticeable. Opening the fridge was the sort of thing reserved for times when you wanted other people awake anyways.
And the neighbors. Jesus, the neighbors. We shared a driveway with nine other condos meaning that try as you might, you had to at least acknowledge each other. Something I’m not really good at. When I’m home I revel in being away from everyone else. I’ll admit. I don’t really like people all that much.
My neighbors on one side, rounded almost human shapes about college aged. Angry, all the time. Hated us every since we asked them to stop bringing their dying dog into our yard to spray it with what, in it’s youth, probably resembled normal shits. The guy had OCD (I’m assuming) and as such he had to close his car door three times whenever he left the car. Not good when he’s grumpy and prone to slamming. We’d get the kids to bed, everything would be quiet. We’d hear the engine. A pause. SLAM SLAM SLAM. And our world would once again be filled with sound and the crying of a child.
We had others that came and went. Weird religious ones. Weird redneck ones. Creepy angry ones. Hell, we even had a family arrested for drug trafficking and prostitution after one of them held a baby hostage. Fun times.
There are people I’ll miss. The lovely couple next door who was lovely only because they never bothered us and merely said hello but never pried. The lady across the driveway who’s daughter I watched go from a weird 12-year-old with an obnoxious obsession with karaoke parties in the driveway to a 22-year-old with a pension for bad relationships. Hell, I’ll even miss Harold, the old guy at the end of the driveway who probably should have died of old age in the 50’s but refuses to go only because he’s appointed himself the protector and security guard of the condo complex and that things going to collapse before he does.
And now? It’s crazy. I have a house. A real house. Not even one of those duplex thingies where another family is living on a separate floor. The real deal.
And it’s being the kind of house I thought I’d have. The living room is giant. We have a dining area. A back room simply called the back room because it has no purpose because we ran out of rooms to assign designations to. And right now I’m in my office.
I have an office.
I’m sitting at my table, on my laptop, and facing out a second story window. Below the window, my backyard stretches out ending at a lake. The lake is surrounded by houses which is nice at night because all their weird miscellaneous lighting reflects in the water allowing me to see the ripple of the water as the window goes. In the distance I see a traffic light. It’s a traffic light attached to a side street with a weight sensor so most of the time it’s just two glowing red eyes staring at me on the horizon.
But what am I doing here?
This is insane. A year ago, if you would have told me I would be in a large house in a room specifically designed for me to write in, over looking a lake, I would have thought you were taunting me. But, here I am.
Life is fucking weird.
Still want to move. Haven’t given up that dream of leaving this state. But for now it’s at least a lot more comfortable.