This is getting to be ridiculous. You see, you start off all excited. You're like "Yeah! I'm gonna own a house! I can have wild parties and not get in trouble! I can jump up and down on my bed in the nude while singing 'Me and Julio' at the top of my lungs without the asshole downstairs pounding on the roof and telling me to shut the fuck up! I can..." well, you get the idea.
Your idealism wanes as you see house after house decorated by Jackson Pollock and Smurfette on methamphetamine. You laugh and thank God you never did acid in college. You wonder if the drugs you have done in the past will come back to haunt you after the next foil-backed green flock wallpapered dining room you see. You seriously consider starting to do drugs again, but scrap the idea when you realize that, at age 30, you've lost all your connections.
But there are some good ones. Most of them have some fatal flaw; they are smack dab in the middle of a busy street and it takes you 45 minutes just to turn into the driveway; they're in the middle of the dread "sinking basement" hot zone of Amherst; they're absolutely charming, yet oddly lack a living room; the list goes on.
And then! You find a really good one you like lots. At this point, of course, Fate, which has been coiled and waiting to strike, bites you in the ass. Hard. You are outbid! You contemplate finding the other bidder and calling someone to "go to work on the homes here with a pair of pliers and a blow torch". Your wife talks you out of it.
Well, that certainly was cathartic. I feel better aleady! No wonder everyone has some sort of digital outlet.
I need a beer.