I almost have a home again.
At the tail end of last year, I sold all of my furniture, stuffed all of my worldly possessions into a seven foot storage cube, and turned over my lease. I knew I was gonna spend the first quarter of 2012 traveling around for work. I was done living where I was living, so I figured why the hell not?
I’ve been in a constant state of transition ever since. My life has been a flurry of hotel rooms and guest houses in LA, New York, and Vegas. For a hot minute I thought I might move to Malibu, but then a heavily tattooed man-child revealed his true nature and saved me from making a horrible decision.
Instead, I just scored a cozy little place up in the hills. It’s charming as fuck, and I’ll have my own pool this summer. I can’t wait. No more suitcases. No more travel sized bullshit. In a few days, I’ll have a real closet again. Hallelujah.
Of course, it occurred to me this afternoon that after losing my keys a few months ago, I have no way of unlocking my storage cube.
I’m surprisingly okay with that.
If you have burned a single calorie analyzing the teenage misdeeds or minor character flaws of Trayvon Martin in an effort to justify the homicide committed by George Zimmerman, then you are a small-minded, racist asshole guilty of the worst kind of victim blaming.