For the past 6 years I lived next to a graveyard in what I referred to as Cemetery House. I adored that house even though a lot of people thought it was kinda creepy. 
I mean, my neighbours were dead quiet. No bones about it, you’d be gravely mistaken to think I didn’t have fantastic accommodation.
This was the view from Cemetery House. It made for splendid 'oh look at my artsy nature with my dark and foreboding filters' pictures.
This was the view from Cemetery House. It made for splendid ‘oh look at my artsy nature with my dark and foreboding filters’ pictures.
I wasn’t fortunate enough to find a place in such a scenic locale here in The Sac, but what I do have is a charming little upstairs half of a house, complete with a red door, and the best front entry in both this galaxy and those far, far away.
If you don't enjoy my doormat, we can't be friends.
If you don’t enjoy my doormat, we can’t be friends.
I call it The Tower, because every good home needs a name and also, you know, it has a straight staircase leading to a large space with many windows from which to survey my domain. (My domain includes the neighbouring apartment’s open bathroom windows, so it can be a truly awful view at times)
Now, you’d think housing would be much the same no matter where you lived in the world, saving perhaps an igloo or a yurt or the Batcave, but you sir or madam, would be very much on the wrong train to wrong town.
Seriously, I am a grown up. I just happen to enjoy things on another level. Just not underwater levels. Man, do they suck.
Seriously, I am a grown up. I just happen to enjoy things on another level. Just not underwater levels.
Man, do they suck.
The Tower is chock full of interesting peccadilloes. Take the light switches. Most simple thing in the world. OR SO YOU’D THINK.
I am wandering around The Tower and it’s getting a little dark, so I start flipping switches in the bedroom and the spare room (which is pretty much housing for three things: my dresses, my shoes and my chinchillas).
Annnnnddddd nothing.
Light does not dawn on me and I am in the dark (literally) as to why.
I then move to stage two of investigating this, which is to flip the switches on and off about a dozen times and scowl at the still lightless room.
Investigation stage three involves looking at the ceiling to see if the bulb is dead.
Bulb?
WHAT BULB?
THIS IS MURICA, WE DONT NEED NO BULB! IN FACT, WE DON’T NEED NO LIGHT FIXTURES AT ALL.
WE GET OUR LIGHT FROM THE EVER-LOVING PHOSPHORESCENCE OF FREEDOM!
Stage four of investigation proceeds by me finding my lamps and plugging them into both rooms whilst inventively cursing the lack of light, light fixtures and Thomas Edison, for inventing the whole silly thing to begin with.
Now, out of habit, I go to flick the switch in the bedroom on the way out and lo and behold, the lamp turns off. “Well, lookee here” methinks and I scoot back into the spare room to triumphantly turn the switch there.
Still nada. Zip. Bupkus. And extreme lack of light.
To do this day, I don’t know what that switch does. I occasionally still flip it for fun. I really hope that it’s not somehow connected to my downstairs neighbour. One day I’ll have to ask her if lights randomly come on and off in her house and if so, deny all culpability.
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