Hey Lauren, love the story. OK, first things first, where do I go to fart? I generally point my tiny tush out the window in my loft. The birds nesting in the grapevine that envelopes my roof probably hate it, but my sexy time partners appreciate the tiny effort.
Now I don’t have any offspring, so I can’t offer much in the way of managing teen angst in a tiny dwelling. But I’ve got a rather rambunctious cat who likes to wake me up in the morning by digging his razor sharp claws into my chest. Perhaps that’s his way of telling me we need a bigger place.
My shit consists of a few t-shirts, some raggedy shoes and few bikes. So there’s not much to store or covet. And when the zombies attack I plan to make a quick getaway on the bike while Peanut (the cat) claws their dead eyes out.
The only regret I have is not downsizing sooner. If you ever find yourself in Santa Cruz you’ve got an open invitation to stop by for a tiny tour. I’ll even show you how to prepare for the zombie apocolypse.