Why do we romanticize the idea of living in squalor? A total shithole? We become unbound from whatever shackles had held us down and now the piss-tagged brick wall vista is beautiful as fuck in its own right. Our youth only knows a feeling of comfort and oppression, and once we embark on that opportunity to do things our own way, we’re not bothered by the musk of cigarette smoke that hangs in the air, the way the floorboards creek and the way the ceiling sags, or the yellow tinge on the walls. In fact we don’t even notice it. It’s our place away from our parents. It’s our place. It’s my place.
My first place away from home was this gently used little townhouse about a 1 5 minute drive from the mall I worked. It was two story, which felt like some kind of upgrade, and had it’s own two feet of space outside of the back door, which backed up to a small park, more townhouses of the complex, and the main office. I’d sit on this back stoop and smoke cigarettes from time to time, thinking about who the fuck knows what. This is me doing that:
Nevermind I can’t find it. Have to post later.