I scored a side hustle. Well, it was my old old side hustle, before the last one. It started as one, became my primary, then went back to a side-hustle. I’m editing again, with the guy I used to do weddings with.

In preparation, I bought a giant monitor, a new mouse and a handle. It’s taken me 2 nights to get my desktop back in working order, go figure. But it’s working. This place is shaping back up and becoming my fortress. My sanctuary as it was always intended to be. Soon she’ll be mad I’m here all the time instead of there.

I’m doing alright though. Except my fat slot roommate. It’s no judgement: She’s enormous, and a slob, just facts. She doesn’t clean up after herself, she believes she’s a cook. No one told her because she can follow a recipe and add a pound of garlic powder that she’s no chef. She’s creeping into my cabinet space… with Crisco. I’m dead serious. There is no room in the freezer because she’s filled it with meat and trash. On the freezer door, there’s two boxes of butter. That’s 8 sticks of butter. Did I mention there’s more in the fridge? There’s 2 dozen eggs, and god knows what else she won’t use. She keeps a mini-fridge in her room. Yet, the refrigerator is empty. Chill out, I’m not going to eat your fat-fuck heart attack food. Jesus Christ.

Well, on the bright side, I can climb out my window to the porch. There’s a brewery across the street and I can feasibly walk to a a packy and a few convenient stores. The grocery and liquor store are less than a mile away, so is work. my room is covered in my shit and the walls are covered in colors by me and the shelves are filled with shit by me or for me. My bed has two broken slats, but works. I keep a handle in here and mixers in the fridge. (all that space)

Life is okay.