Moving is not going well. Let’s just say I currently live in my in-laws’ attic because some bureaucrat has decided to take a longer long weekend holiday instead of signing the one piece of paper I need to buy my home. Yes, it should have been signed months ago but the man building my house didn’t send it then. He sent it yesterday. And it’s too nice out today to sign papers that let people buy the houses they are contracted to buy tomorrow after having already sold the house they were living in yesterday to someone else.
So I live in my in-laws’ attic and only see a computer two or three times a week when I get to go to work.
My boss just asked me, as I projected colorful mucus from my nose holes on this my 8th day of being ill, why I don’t just go home. What home, bossman? The one I don’t own anymore? The one I don’t own yet? Or the one where no one will tell me where anything is or how to get things done, where I don’t have a key or know the alarm code and I’m not supposed to be feeding myself or leaving without making plans for someone to let me back in?
Oh Target? You meant why don’t I go to Target? Why not indeed. Target, here I come.