Reverse Homeless.
Anything will help.
God Bless.

The best cure for an echo in your bedroom is to put things inside of it to absorb the sound waves that are bouncing around naked walls. Right now, I have no things. I've got a roof over my head, but barely enough stuff to fill a grocery cart. I'm like a reverse homeless person: my toes are cold, I'm hungry, yet I'm laying on the floor typing on a laptop. Today was move in day. I now live within walking distance of my favorite place in Austin, Barton Springs. But if you could scope the scene of my room right now, you'd probably take one look and assume that I'm in the final stages of moving out.

I don't know what to call it. I do, but I don't like saying "my efficiency." What a horrible name for a living structure. In truth, I live in two efficiencies pushed up against one another. But I'm not ever going to be like, "What up, you wanna come by to my efficiencies? 'Where two become wuuuuuunnn...'" Some people (like Two Weeks Ago Bayless) don't even know what an efficiency is, thereby making it inefficient to have to explain it. But what do I say instead? I can't lie and be like, "my apartment." It's not an apartment, though I do have neighboring efficiencies abutting my spot, and I live next door to an apartment complex. But it's not a house, either, though I do have a humongous back porch and no neighbors above or below. It's more like a really nice shed. I'm fine with that. It's a really nice shed with carpet, electricity, gas and running water. And a kitchenette, not to be confused with a kitchen, which is bigger than a kitchenette. I love the word kitchenette.

I basically live in a bigger version of the standard room you'd find at an Extended Stay Hotel, without any things inside of it just yet.

So it's settled. "My shed." I'm going to refer to it as The Shed. Boom! Done. Sometimes my brain doesn't decide something so much as my fingers punch it out unconsciously during a rambling course of writing.

It sure smells like a shed, by the way, inside the closet. And no one wants their clothes to smell like the old shed out back. It's almost as bad as your grandmother whose entire being smells like mothballs. One of the first things on my To Buy list is incense.

The rest of the place smells like week-old paint. And the wood outside appears to be rotting, though I'm sure if I just ignore it everything will be fine. I'm just glad to have a place of my own.

Remember how excited I became when I found out that craigslist has a free section? Manastash! Well I've decided that it would be a great conversation starter, not to mention a great money saver, if I furnished The Shed entirely with free shit from craigslist. I am talking everything. Couch, chairs, desk, maybe a hutch, perhaps a desk/hutch one-two combo, tables, cutlery, pots, pans, plates, bowls, zote. Kila kitu. Sve. Todos.

Even a mattress.

My dad, The Bob, thinks it's gross to fart, and he used to feign nausea whenever I'd get too close to him with my reeking piece of hemp tied around my neck during my peak heady years. How do you think he would feel about the idea of me sleeping on a mattress left out on the curb for the earliest bird?

"In all seriousness," he said yesterday when I told him my great new idea, "you need to buy a mattress." He'd laughed as I excitedly listed off all the possibilities for scavenging the Internet provides, but wasn't kidding about my sleeping situation. "And if you need help with money, I'd be more than happy to spring for one."

Get it? Spring for one? Dad, you are so clever. And while I appreciate the offer, I think it would simply be dishonest of me to try and start a conversation with, "I got everything in my shed from craigslist," if the most important thing in the room came from my dad's credit card.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go drive out to Round Rock. My new friend Maria is trying to get rid of a comfy black leather couch and a coffee table.