Dear God,
I’d like to erase my whole life, start over, and spend it in this thing:
Love,
Ashley.
Dear Ashley,
I see you’re dreaming big. I told you to get out more.
You see what happens when you spend too much time alone?
We can’t save you now. No one can.
Love,
God
Mayhaps the great cosmic force speaking to me through caffeine induced schizophrenic auditory hallucinations is right. Or maybe not. ’cause for a bachelorette (or bachelor – we don’t discriminate here) who’s already a bit over the stuff most over the hill folk are, it is the stuff of dreams. Somewhere along the way, my priorities switched from being a brand courtesan to someone who says “Ah’ll suck yo deeeick” while looking longingly at overpriced Wegman’s produce or a hut made of hay so long as it was arranged near the beach or in the woods. I think that was around the time I started realizing how expensive being an adult was – and how unrealistic it was to try and match the lifestyles of my rich friends. Especially when I was sans an ample inheritance like they had. But something else happened too – after nixing pain and anxiety pills. I started looking for happiness elsewhere. Forewarned by my betters that food and sex in excess would lead only to woe, I heeded their cautionary tales, ate better, and ventured – reluctantly – out into nature. And if you’ve read enough on here, you know I did not return from that journey disappointed.
So now, with my main craving being having my basic, natural needs met…
…that little house looks a helluva lot better than it would’ve several years ago.
If it’s on prime real estate like this – and the others I’ve seen – seem to be.
Imagine having your view be mountains, a gorgeous skyline, or even an endless and hypnotizing view of the sea? These people pay zero mortgage, have more windows than walls (or at least as many?), and some pay as little as $8,000 for it. Then again, you can spruce it up and have the best of both worlds. Because even though that snap up above looks like it’d hold a unibomber rocking back and forth in his own feces, the inside of this child’s playhouse looking thing is the real life residential example of how you can’t judge a book by its cover.
For example, this’s what you’d first see if you slid open that door and stepped inside:
Hungry?
Turn into the kitchen and whip up a plate of whatever’s being arranged by Rachel Ray on that plasma screen.
Now that you’re in a food-doped pre-coma, it’s time for a nap.
Let’s move upstairs – where there’s more “bed” than “room” happening on this second floor.
All this, I suppose, is great, if you can sacrifice leg-stretchy luxury at tub time:
Does anyone else hate the euphemistic term “Jacuzzi stye bathtub”? (That’s what it’s labeled as on the site I found these images.) Can we stop lying? Admit it’s just an effing doorless version of the one they sell to nursing home applicants? And call a trade-off a trade-off? Let’s cease the deception here. After a long day of growing food in my garden (‘cause in my daydream where I live here, it’d be somewhere where I had one. And knew anything about gardening), I’d wanna stretch out my dirty ass. Not sit upright while my arm mire gets partially missed and ends up on that brilliant bed I just saw.
I suppose the moral here is that anywhere I live is gonna have a trade off. And if you were to put all of my own OMG-what-was-she-thinking style furnishings in that isolated shed instead’a the feng-shui it’s got going on right now… Well, I don’t guess it’d look nearly as sexy. In fact, I bet it’d probably be as sucky as my own current-situation cell that’s beehived between noisy neighbors is.
Except lonelier.