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.
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