I’m finally moved. It’s a quiet room in a quiet house in a quiet neighborhood.

Moving couches all weekend, sore and battered, coming into work on a Monday where my only reward is that I live 5 minutes closer.

I keep telling myself this will let me save up for a condo, some real property, but even if I do get a place of my own, I will probably want some company.

I keep telling myself what happened to my mom, she rented a house and came home one day to find she was locked out and the lady kept her stuff.

I keep telling myself I need a girlfriend. A girlfriend would probably keep telling myself that I need to be me. To be me I need to be myself, which means I need to keep telling myself stuff.