Admonishment of the Day

Do you hear me bemoaning or wailing about being forced to move five days after arriving?

No. And you won’t.

Again, my instincts were spot on. I knew going in that this place was temporary, that its purpose was as escape hatch and spot of safety from the horrible House of Wincing.

Well, my current abode – no nickname yet – is a little safer by virtue of design. My basement room affords me distance from the rampaging roommate.

Yes, she is on a rampage. I said her issues were serious. If you’ve not learned by now that my words carry weight and credibility, I can’t help you.

Yesterday morning it was her email. Because her eviction notice came outta the blue, I asked for her reasons. She responded with a lengthy list of absurd allegations and accusations. An impressive list it was too, given that I’d been there only four days and with most of that time absent from the residence.

And I have no interest in residing with anyone severely enmeshed in his/her own issues; neither am I willing to be beaten into a pulp by such persons. Been there. Done that. That’s why biology has designed it such that kids leave home.

Yesterday it was list of hostile absurdities. Today it was the note on the coffee pot:

PLEASE CLEAN OUT THE FILTER AND POT WHEN YOU’RE DONE.

In big bold black letters on a large sheet of paper covering the little pot. Just like that. Rampaging roommate.

My present survival tactic which was also the tactic at my last residence and others before that is: AVOID HOME.

In big bold black letters. Just like that.

It’s hard for most people to grasp what I mean when I write that I’ve never had a home (with a few exceptions = passing residences). As a child, I intimately identified and empathized with Oliver Twist, the ragamuffin orphan boy on the streets.

Some things never change. Consequently, I’m a pro at occupying myself away from a house/residence (an altogether separate post that most likely will never see the light of day).

I’ve perfected the art of going “home” when others are asleep, of not being there when they’re present, not cooking there, not eating save out of a jar of peanut butter. I’m the Master of Unpresence.

I pay dearly for it. Not only financially (paying rent for a space where I’m rarely there is sorta wasted money) but all levels spiritual, emotional, mental and physical.

I challenge you to avoid your home for, oh, 12 hours a day for a week and gauge the state of your health and well-being and comfort.

Just sayin’.

Anyhow, I’s got to get somewhere so I close and leave the world with this thought:

If home truly is where the heart is, why do I have such a good heart despite decades of battering, fucked-up homes and unruly dangerous roommates?

Just something to chew on …

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