Dead Raccoons and Crackheads

                    "Hello I'd like to look at the apartment you had listOH HOLY FUCKBALLS NO." 
 

 Looking for apartments.  

Found one, it was the size of a closet.  Lovely neighborhood, brand spankin' new, lovely neighbors, and tighter than a nuns' ass.  I have never seen such a tiny  little place, and I've lived in studio apartments, kids.  What the actual fuck.

Looked at another apartment. -nay, a duplex!  Just about perfect!  Beautiful rural setting, a view of the mountains, on high ground, all the space we'd need plus a yard to turn into a magnificent garden...aaaaaand the manager is a huge douchebag.  Big man here. Got important shit to do.  Not time to chat! Yeah yeah yeah yeah my wife handles that shit I AM DOING IMPORTANT THINGS PEASANT!

Whew!  OK then!

On to Crack Country.  Average apartment, average building, rent controlled, but crackheads.

Then to the Wood Hood!  Yes, once a former coal mine, now a large flat place riddled with underground tunnels, where all the streets are named after trees and all the people are sketch as fuck.  But it is a nice building, and hell, it's in a neighborhood...near all the stores and services...

And in the middle of all this, I travelled nine miles and then waited two hours to speak to a Red Cross representative only to have our case get lost in the system.  Waited some more, sitting in the shelter, smelling the distinct aroma of human feces, amid the Covid cases and a lot of really pissed off people, only to get a phone interview - that could have been conducted anywhere - and  end up re-start a new case with a new case number...only to have the system lock up and be told that 'You'll be hearing from us.'  At least I got a can of tomato juice out of the venture.

I also met a couple of grizzled old rips like me there who lost everything in the Sumas flood.  It was kind of nice to meet old neighbors and be able to commiserate with people who 'get it'. 

 Both women had to be rescued by fishing boat AND by tractor bucket.  One almost drowned when the shelter she was staying in flooded and a floor caved in, and the other has been moved three times already to different shelters.  So there's the 'it could have been worse' factor too. 

As I was out and about I nearly drove in to Sumas to take a look at the old place, but I just couldn't. It's odd.  I just never want to see it again.  

I'll have to of course.  There's things to clean and pack, and roses to dig up and distribute.

The thing that gets to me is all the people out there living in their little houses, just like mine, happy about Christmas on the way, warm and dry, probably worried about their mortgages and car payments.  I desperately want one of those little houses.  It doesn't matter where.  I'll make it a home.  I'll stand on the roof and fend off the crackheads.  It doesn't matter.  I just want a little house again. My own, all paid for, simple and cozy.

Yeah, the loss is starting to hit home.