I love living in a tiny house. Mine has wheels.
I absolutely do wake up and think I’ve made a terrible mistake. If I were even closer to the ceiling I would have so much more storage.
We have the “Run Outside to Fart Rule”. It’s a simple concession, but if you break it, you’re responsible for the next pack-up day which means you have to remember where all the nooks and crannies we hide things are. We do pray…that we have everything we need because we can’t buy anything else. If we do, someone’s designer something has to go.
Simple is not my chosen word, but we’ll use “simple Just last week, I did run out of clean underwear, but going commando for one…okay three…days wasn’t so bad. Believe it or not, my washing machine NEVER gets a break. I call her Rosie, but my shit goes in the toilet. Where do you put yours? I personally have more towels than clothing. You can always wear a towel, but seriously, 5 summer outfits, 5 winter, extra sweaters, 5 pairs of shoes out of storage (lots of storage). Everthing that won’t be worn “this season” gets packed away (under the bed). Anything extra like special occasion wear is packed away. There is no tiny river, but I see the ocean three times each season… again, wheels.
It has to be that clean all the time. Otherwise, there’s nowhere to sit, sleep or shit. My sofas (plural) seat 8 or double as beds. I don’t like throw blankets, but there is one. I am partial to pillows. The sofas are covered in them. By the way, I have every pot and pan you can ever need…They’re all in the dishwasher…all the time…wait…I was supposed to…DAMN IT!! No books…kindle. I keep pictures on my phone like everyone else.
You can have privacy outside.
God damn, you have so many questions.
If you want to be alone, kick everyone out. Did no one teach you anything? I don’t feel like a rat, but I do like cheese…former life maybe? If you shout, you just started a fight. I just tilt my head in that cute, cofused-puppy way and say, “Would you please go do something that’s not here?” It must be a southern thing, but flies with honey, honey.
Sexy time…no rug rats here, so I don’t know how you would. Wait. I have dogs. We let them watch. It’s the most thrilling thing they see. If you were to ask them, it’s better than HBO.
My dogs are gay, and they have no shame. We’ve tried to teach them to wait, but those boys. Maybe it’s my fault for naming them Jacque and Henri (pronounced On ri).
SEXY TIME GOES ON AS SCHEDULED…promptly at 9:15pm and 7:45am. The dogs control the sofa schedule, and they’re so strict.
The bed is over there, next to the ceiling, remember?
Again, the dogs control the sofa schedule so they can sleep there.
I don’t have guests. I don’t like people. They can visit whenever they like. They just have to find me. I’ll be somewhere west next week.
“Honey, want to go visit Alli and West out in their 310-square-foot bus this weekend?”
“Are you shitting me? That place smells like hippies.”
We are fully prepared for a zombie apocalypse. We have machetes and…bus.
No need to be jealous, sweetie. You can have a tiny house. All you have to do is give up half your crap and be willing to let it all go. Modern tools, I’m addicted to power tools. It’s my disease, my burden.
All the best,
P.S. This response is mostly in jest. I wouldn’t trade my life for brick and mortar ever again. It’s not always peaches and cream. I prefer strawberries. We are actually working toward a project to help homeless veterans reconnect with their families to give them a chance at reintegrating in society. If they can’t be reconnected to their families, we will provide counseling services, job placement and temporary housing. Beyond that, we will help them build a tiny home of their own.
Shake the hand of a homeless person today. Odds are, they fought for your freedom!