I am writing this post from the study of my mom’s house. My house had no internet. I always end up back here. I failed a test back in college. I came over here crying. I got dumped. I came over here moping. I ran out of gas. I came over here begging for money even though I had spent the past two nights crying and moping.

No matter how much I grow (vertically, horizontally, smartly), I always end up back here. I think my mother had a magnetic chip implanted inside my brain whose other pole was directly under my bed. That’s not to say I don’t love my mother and enjoy her company. I also love my step-father and their horrible dog. I’m not really complaining about being here a lot. I’m just commenting. Of course, women (society) often view a 28-year-old man who is close with his mother as ‘clingy’ or ‘Jewish’.

Oh! Also! The washing machine where I live is currently broken, so on top of always being here, I’m also here roughly every five days to do my laundry. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s so tempting. It’s so homely here. Everything is so clean. Frasier is always on the television. A scented candle is always burning. Clean clothes are always folded. A maid comes once a week. Or used to come. There was a maid here sometime in the not-too-distant past. I know that she had a name but I only knew her for 22 years. I always felt guilty when I was little and I slept in and she wanted to clean my room. That’s the worst feeling. Obviously, it’s worse for her, because she has to clean some dirty, spoiled child’s room. However, the guilt is pretty bad, too. I wanted to be like, “I’m sorry I’m over privileged, but have you slept in this bed?”