No one said, one day when you grow up you are going lose your dream job and all your money and your dignity and whatever certainty you had in yourself and, then, finally, when you're invited to live at your mom's house, it's going to be suddenly (for no good reason) upgraded to an invitation to live in the coach house, instead.
The couch house, instead.
That's a whole house.
With two floors. A staircase. My god. I was excited about the hallway when I moved into this apartment. I'm still excited about the hallway (it's a really long hallway with doorways, a light fixture, and it's own echo).
This means all kinds of happy things.
This means I don't have to put all of my furniture into storage.
This means privacy.
This means a basement.
A basement. Just think of it. A dark, damp place downstairs where I can do the laundry as slowly as I like.
Where I'll be able to think.
Where I'll be able to stow my mops and brooms and everything I hate.
It's so good.
So why do I feel bad?
Because I haven't earned this. Because I never wanted a house.
Because I can't enjoy anything until I find a job.
And, you know, I will. The second I've moved to a suburb that I never wanted to live in - and into a house that I don't deserve.