For the first time in my life, I live by myself. No parents, grandparents, roommates or brothers (either blood or fraternal). The studio is small, the real estate agent called it cozy. Just me, my thoughts and my things. I have no decorations; everything serves a purpose. Much of my possessions were inherited from others; my big television was given to me by my wonderful brother Jordan, the mini-fridge and television in storage and book rack were purchased from Kenny for $40, the couch and ottoman were given to me by my ex-girlfriend Melanie Dies and even my bed was given to me by my grandparents’ elderly friend. I have no emotional attachment to anything I own, except maybe my old computer. I have no ties. This is both good and bad; If I ever needed to I could just disappear and leave everything behind without a second thought, but it feels like I have no real home.
I don’t think I have ever really considered a place home. I have no roots anywhere or deep connection to any place of residence. Places and things are there merely to serve a function to me; people are all that matter. I have never really decorated any place I have ever lived, except as I felt obliged to impress people. The things I own are not pretty, but they are very useful. I feel that my time is better spent experiencing life and the world than sitting in a too-clean house with frilly shit on my walls. As a kid, whenever I visited anyone’s house that was too pristine and pretty, I was wary. People who have couches with plastic/sheets on them, a spotless white carpet and framed paintings on the wall and a plastic smile are usually hiding a pitch-black heart. They probably have a prostitute chopped up in little itty bitty pieces in garbage bags in the basement. I prefer people who are straight forward and have comfy, lived in-homes. I like to have my friends over and drink wine and eat pasta and have a good time without constantly worrying about minor accidents.