My little place downtown

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At first glance it looks seamless.

Shiny, original hardwood floors. New appliances. Neutral color décor. Clean beige walls.

Then you start looking.

The 1940s-built place has cracks. Layers of paint are pealing – some layers that are probably made of lead paint.

You watch your step on the front porch, since each step is a different height.

Doors and drawers don’t close completely, thanks to the layers of paint.

The walls are plaster, not sheetrock – they’d survive a punch, but a fist sure wouldn’t.

It’s a home with many flaws.

But it’s home, nonetheless.

A one bedroom, cozy, I-can’t-wait-to-relax there home.

A wine-sipping call to the back porch, looking out to nature.

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It’s a safe haven from the madness surrounding it. Like the ambulances that pass by daily. Or the crazy neighbor who chases and cusses at her dog when it gets away. And I can’t forget the old man from across the street who asked me on a date to the Shrine Club.

It was a fun time – just kidding.

It’s my first place, my first home.

Sometimes I like for it to look like nobody lives there, like a magazine.

Other times I’m fine with a mess.

It’s where I planted the roots to my career.

It’s where I cook my Grandma Reba’s pound cakes.

One of the best things about it – rent is cheaper than an Apple Watch Series 2.

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