On My Own

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Anyone worth their weight in kimchi bacon cheese fries takes decent care of their possessions. Some people even take care of stuff better than they do someone else’s. That can be scary. Don’t believe me? Ever lend somebody a cd or video game (oh, ancient one)? Better yet: ever loan a book out? One of the worst feelings ever. There’s nothing like thinking you may not get that book back, or worrying you’ll forget about it and when you realize you don’t have it, you can’t remember who you gave it to or when. Not to mention the likelihood of that person letting some third-party borrower take the book to use in a PolSci 204 or Af Am Lit 231 course as a works cited page reference, meaning now some negro is cross-country skim-reading your first edition signed Walter Mosely book and don’t even know whose library he stole from. Don’t let them bring it back you and it be all bogus…

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Book lendin’ is real outchea in deez streetz. #keepyoshelves100

Owning something like a book, a valuable piece of art, or even some kind of collectible like a World Series foul ball is one thing–personal keepsakes aside. But owning a home for the first time changes the entire game on a completely different level. I’m talking running along the top of the bricks in the sewer in Mario Bros. type of other level. Bypassing all those other smaller things you thought meant more than they actually do type of other level. I’m not saying those things aren’t important to you, but the difference is staggering.

I discovered how dust bunnies are created. I used to wonder how all of a sudden there’d be giant, fabricky clumps of lint and dust under the bed when it was time to clean my room as a kid. It looked like someone had been cleaning out the dryer lint and stashing the contents under there with my shoes. Sheep sheerings must’ve blown through the window and got caught under the television stand and behind the bookshelves. I never would have learned that dust particles link up like velcro as you sweep it up with a hand broom if it wasn’t legit my floor I was sweeping. By the time you’re ready to sweep it into the dust pan, it’s turned into a bunny right before my eyes. Taking that care, paying that much attention to an act as mundane as sweeping…man…never thought it was something I’d care that much about.

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Or light bulbs. My wife helps to make our condo a lovely home. But we have so many different kinds of lightbulbs throughout this place it’s cartoonish. The entryway lights are different from the living room lights, are different from the bathroom lights, are different from the hallway lights, are different from the ceiling fan lights. I mean, I’m gonna need to buy some stock in GE just to make my money back on bulbs.

As a grown adult person, I’ve realized–fully–what my mother meant when she said I couldn’t have that super sweet cereal: “When you’re in your own house, and buying your own groceries, you can have whatever kind of cereal you want.”

Touche.

Now, I’m sweeping my own floors, I’m buying my own cereal, and I’m homing up this place real good. Oh, and if you’ve ever lend me a book, I won’t lend it out to anyone else. It may be forever before you get it back, but I won’t give it out. It’ll be right here on the shelf. #100

Be good.

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