Friday, January 1, 2010

My Parent's Basement

Sometimes times are tough, and sometimes you have to move in with your parents. I was fired from my job when I was 28 for "gross incompetence and offensive behavior", according to my now-former boss, whose condo I ended up setting on fire. I made sure he wasn't in it, of course.

So lack of funds meant my parent's damp basement became my home. Bringing guys home (through the windows) was no small task, and then they always asked the one awkward question- “why is your bed two blankets in a kiddie pool"? What, you expected the Hilton? Like stray dogs, I could always bring a man into my home, but never keep ‘em. I realized that maintaining any kind of relationship would be impossible.

Occasionally, one of my parents would open the basement door, throw a turkey leg down the stairwell, and then slam the door shut. Sometimes I would find notes taped to my cement walls- "Get a fucking job or get out"- and I appreciated how supportive they were. I wondered why they wouldn’t let me stay in any of the 4 empty guest rooms upstairs, and my mom told me, “No use putting quarters in an empty coke machine”. Not sure what that means, but she said it with love.

Eventually, I moved out, but I would be lying if I said I didn't miss my parent's basement just a little. I mean, the food was free, the blankets were warm, and really- who doesn't like hanging out with the two people who gave you life?

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