I own a home. I can wreck the walls, I can fuck the paint
up. I can do whatever I want and not give a single shit
about what a landlord has to say and who has to pay
because I know it will be me or my wife or future wife.

And I don’t care.

I do not care. If my roof leaks I will deal with the mold.
I will deal with the fallout without picking up the phone.
I will pretend as though my life has changed for the
better without ample reason outside a mortgage.

And I don’t care.

But maybe I should. Maybe being thirty one years old does
matter. Maybe debt is the determining factor between
something and nothing. Maybe credit is God and bad
credit the Devil. Maybe my guitar will stay in tune.

But I don’t care.

And it’s cold. And it’s windy. And it’s lame. It is all these
things and more. I read it in a flyer and I heard it at the
family reunion and I bought a pile of shit at the store.
It was half-price, fifty percent off and two for one.

But I don’t care.

Do you?


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