The Pergo and vapor layer have been removed, leaving only a minefield of alternating solid and popped loose tile that makes a nice crunch when weight is applied toward the corners of the tile. To be fair, we don't know if the tiles are asbestos yet. We mailed the sample out today for analysis. If it comes back negative, I'll rip out the tile myself. If not, I'll pay a pro to come in and do the job right. I have all the equipment, time, and expertise to do it myself in a safe manner, but I lack two key things: desire and motivation. Suddenly I realize that this statement applies to an ever-widening array of situations in my life.
In the meantime, all essential operations have been moved out of the basement to the first floor. I had expected the loss of approximately half our living area to be a lot harder than it was. After a day or two solid of hanging out upstairs, I don't miss the basement at all.
It's rejuvenating to realize that you don't need all that space. That all the things you need could fit in a space about twice the size of a standard two bedroom apartment. And the floor plan upstairs isn't even optimized. Once you have more space, you fill it up with more useless crap that you don't need. And all that crap comes with extra maintenance that I, for one, prefer not to do.
Then I wonder why we have a house at all. You have to worry about the roof, siding, gutters, fencing, garden, shed, deck, paint, flooring, appliances, etc., etc. etc. And don't get me started on yard work. Fescue my ass. If I had my way I'd burn all the grass down and Astroturf that crap. Or asphalt, whichever's cheapest.
Even that accursed car and truck in the driveway. Do I really need them? Having to wash them after every snow, get the oil changed, dump tons of cash into the tank to keep them running, pay insurance, and worry which one is going to explode on the road first. Insurance on a motorcycle is around a hundred bucks a year. And driving a motorcycle is pretty much the only time I've ever felt truly free in my life.
And don't get me started on these damn cats. Barfing, pissing, meowing monstrosities sent to poison my soul like locusts in the apocalypse.
How much could we accomplish if we weren't always worrying about our nice, neat, flaming little shit? And wouldn't shedding all this unjustifiable garbage free us up to do something, if not enjoyable, perhaps a bit less soul crushing.
Flipmode back to reality: it's screwed. "This world hasn't become hell. This world has always been hell, from the very start." I'm locked into my own version of the American nightmare. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Guess I'm a masochist after all.
¡No es real! As I write this, on comes the Social D:
"Times are hard, getting harder, when you're born to lose and destined to fail . . . . "
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