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I was listening to Detlef Schrempf on repeat as I made my way through town. My car, winding it’s way down the familiar roads I have had stored in my memory, and some roads that had been waiting there for me to discover.  I’ve been contemplating things about my life a lot lately, especially when Im in my car… like getting bangs and throwing out everything that’s in my closet because I’d like to start over.  It’s like being in the shower or going on a really long walk.  Thoughts sneak in before I even realize I left the door open and all of the sudden I’m continuing a conversation I had when I was in high school  because my brain likes to play this really fun game of “let’s re-hash old memories about times I felt misunderstood or embarrassed.” It’s actually not that fun.  I tried to convince myself to think about something else like how wonderful and blissful the world is or some bull crap like that, but to no avail, I had to finish saying (in my mind, of course) the things I should have said a decade ago.  What?! I know. Help.

Anyways. Why don’t people take care of their houses? I feel like I have moments of clarity when I drive through old neighborhoods and see all of the houses that are cut out of a magazine from the 60’s but in somewhere magical like Ireland or something.  The houses that look like little cottages with their own little secret gardens…and I picture myself there. Because one day I will be. More than anything I want to buy an old house that has lots of memories, lots of yard and lots of tree’s.  But I see some of them and I want to march up to their front door and tell whoever is occupying that particular space to get their freaking act together and start treating their home like it deserves.  Clean it up, mow the lawn, plant some lilacs and lavender so I can drive past it and feel a little bit of peace. Won’t you just pacify my bizarre need to see a little more effort from complete strangers?? No? Ok then…

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