House

This is my living room. I own this house. There are poems about how I own this house. There are poems about how I own this house and have to rent it out to people, and how they leave things behind in my home, and how I am responsible for all their waste. Waste waste waste. And I mean waste. Wasteful college students.

In my latter 20s, I have mostly gotten rid of their waste, but you would not believe the amount that piles up (and naturally, I have my own waste to tend to as well). You would not believe the disrespect people have for a home that they do not own. You would believe, however, how unprepared I was at 20 years old to own a home. It was a gift from my father. It was a gift. Now it is a weight I can't unload. In this market, I can't sell it. Besides the fact that the house needs quite a bit of upkeep, it also is in a particularly undesirable part of Orlando. I was robbed last year. Of course, we have recovered many of our possessions through home owner's insurance. But I tell you, being robbed is a violation I hope no one has to experience.

I don't know what it is about this house. I don't know if I look around and remember. The drunk boyfriend who lived off me for nearly 2 years. The best friend who had two psychotic episodes there. Being robbed. Being a functioning drug addict. I smell the smell of the last five years and I want to run.

I don't know what it is about this house. No one seems to want to stay. Including me. This year, I have gone through 4 roommates; there are only 2 rooms to rent out. Most of the year the rooms have been empty (May, June, January, February), either one or both. This is the first year I have not had friends in this city that would want to live with me. That means I have turned to Craigslist. When I invite people into my home, I know they enjoy the people, our conversation. I cannot help but think that the two people who have so far turned me down don't want to live there because the property is undesirable. Tell me: are dishes in the sink, cats spread out on the tile, ash trays on the coffee table (no cigarettes) so bad? Or is it just that these folks were not the right fit? Most likely it is the latter. But my pessimism says that I have not done my job as a care taker. My father says I haven't done my job as a care taker. I never wanted to be a care taker. I just want to take care of myself. And fuck the rest.