So I own a house. Wait, let me rephrase that, the bank owns the house. Which they are leasing out to me for a monthly payment including HOA fees, that in all reality is only deducting the interest attached to it for the first twenty years, all so I can lay claim to owning a chunk of God’s beautiful unspoiled green earth. Well, technically 1460 square feet of insulated plastic sitting on top of God’s beautiful unspoiled green earth. But hey, it’s mine right? YEAH! ‘MURICA!
For full effect, download “Pretty Young Thing” by Michael Jackson, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. On a side note, I would also like to add I was informed yesterday that’s the kind of music that will help you in your road to adopting an alligator. You know, if that’s your kind of thing.
Owning a house is like ingesting a colony of E.coli in your intestines after eating a plate full of room temperature corned beef. That’s a piss-poor analogy, I know. But I’m just trying to give you some kind of perspective on what it’s like to own something like this at such a young age. In fact, I never really thought I would get to this point in my life, at least not until my mid-50’s. But that’s when floating skateboards would be the craze and we’d all have house androids named Rosie cooking us dinner. Give us another 25 years for that.
I would almost compare buying a house to the act of having a baby, without all of the Kegel exercises to help dilation and midnight 7-11 runs for dill pickles and ice cream. Buying a house is where you put on your big boy pants and sign a short novel of signatures. Seriously, I had to sign the initials B.T.B. 78 different times. And for the record, no my middle name is not Taneisha. Who the curse word would name their kid Brock Taneisha Bybee?
I also think it’s time to confess that I have now gained an addiction for seven-hour binges of HGTV. Go ahead, try and buy a house and not watch 14 episodes of “House Hunters” back to back. It’s impossible. Like trying to throw away a bag of almond Symphony bars at a convention for depressed mothers. There, that was a better analogy, wasn’t it? Part of me feels that after buying a house I need to join the local chapter of HGTV Anonymous and confess my hoarding dependence for this station to the crowd.
Me: “Hi. My name is Brock Taneisha Bybee, and I have a problem.”
HGTV Anonymous: “Hi Brock!”
See, a house is like a canvas. And there is an endless list of upgrades I’m looking to make so the picture inside just keeps looking better and better. Things like tobacco shag carpet matched with crimson chimp-painted walls going up the stairway. Add on the dark leather sectional in the living room with the stained chocolate cabinets as a beautiful accent. OMG, there are just SO many things I want to change around here. And please go ahead and say that last sentence in your head using an overly effeminate voice of a man who would own all the Glee soundtracks. I think it adds more character to this paragraph.
Owning a home is one of the last steps you need to complete in order to archive your existence as a child, and solidify your standard of being an adult. Out with the old faded Kobe Bryant pictures and decorative snowboard coffee tables, in with the new canvas black and white photograph of a desert sky by Ansel Adams and the $15 hand towel set from Ikea. When you own your home you stop TiVo-ing episodes of “Duck Dynasty”, and instead load up on “Love It Or List It”.
Was this the worst decision I’ve ever made? Nah, not quite. I’d say being chased by the cops buck-naked in Virginia still owns claim to that title. But was this the best decision I’ve ever made? A decision that has now crowned me a Wells Fargo-owned indentured servant for the next 30 years of my natural life? Was signing over my entire existence to a bank something I can say was the right thing to do?
Well, due to the fact that I can eat bowls of Captain Crunch while peeing with the door open, or paint my face like William Wallace and walk around the place completely naked whenever I want and not a single soul will ever know about this, you can bet your Michael Jackson-loving alligator it was.