Can’t sleep. Again. Dog.
Am lying here staring at the ceiling like we’re having an argument. Don’t think I’m winning.
Buying this place was supposed to be a milestone. Something solid. I worked weekends, skipped nights out, and lived off Pot Noodles (Bombay Bad Boy. Allowed myself some treats).
Still remember the estate agent handing over the keys and me saying “cheers” like it was just another Tuesday. Then I walked around each room and whispered, “Ours.”
That was three years ago. I was nicer back then. Happier.
Now, there’s mould in the bathroom corner, a damp patch in the hallway, and a noise in the pipes. Think it’s probably haunted.
Nothing gets fixed now. Not since I lost my proper job. I’m treading water at a 9–5 I think I’m better than, earning a shite salary I need more than I want to admit.
Wish I’d rented. At least then I could leave. Find something in budget.
Tried looking at selling, but I’d lose money.
So I lie here ruminating instead. Because I own these walls. I own the whole miserable square footage.
next: –71. Shameful Trip to the Printer
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