Monday. My first real day off.

Going-away party on Saturday. We stuffed the bar. The bartenders struggled to keep up with our drinks.

"You're really special, Rosie," she shouted, but in the noise, I could barely hear her. "Really, really special." She clung to my neck, drunk, her wispy hair drifting into my face. She was so small, my arm went right around her ribs and touched me again on the other side.

I laughed. I smiled. What to say to that? I mugged, winked, she laughed.

They made me a holographic pink cowboy hat ringed by seven silver squishy dildoes.

"Amazon is suggesting dildoes to me, thanks to you," the Portuguese mouldmaker laughs. "I got it delivered to the shop under Matt's name. He was so confused."

They also give me a beautiful new scraper, the handle which they have cast into a solid resin penis.

~

I call my mother. My little brother has bought his fourth house.

I try to express my frustration with people like my brother, who buy houses and slice them up into small apartments, and rent them. Who line their pockets with my money, and never let me get on the housing market.

I feel resentment rising in my throat like bile. My mother defends him -- "He's just saving for his retirement!" -- and I can hear my voice go shrill as I counter -- "He's retiring off people like me! How am I supposed to live?".

I have to stop the conversation after a while. She sounds a bit hesitant, like she hadn't thought of it like that maybe, but she doesn't stop defending him. She defends herself, explains the shitty living situations she was in to save to buy a house.

I lay silent on the floor of my five person houseshare. Moths flutter out of the chewed wool carpet. Smears of black mould creep across the ceiling. A spider appears from somewhere and disappears again and I try not to think about it.

Instead I think about the median yearly income of a teacher when my parents bought their house -- $12,000 -- and the price they paid for their four bedroom corner lot house -- $26,000. I think about my current income -- $30,000 -- and the housing prices for a comparable house in a place I need to live to work -- $500,000+. Even a tiny one-bedroom condo is beyond my price range.

I feel like crying, but that could just be the stress of moving continents.

~

I buy a car. Over the phone. I call the guy -- he runs a small auto-parts store. It was their delivery vehicle. Recently upgraded cars and didn't need this one anymore. Lost the other in the fleet to a snow-storm.

He sounds nice, like somebody's dad. He sounds like he's still doing business like they always did, back in the 60's, and still writes out receipts by hand.

It's more money than I want to pay. The price makes me breath a little quicker, mentally count my money again. But I can afford it. Can't I?

I'm sure I can. It's fine.

The car is silver, a little hatchback. Good on gas. Mileage is a bit high, but maintenance is perfect. No accidents. One owner.

We agree on a price. I call my dad, send him down to make the payment.

I'll sign the paperwork on saturday.

~

Packing up my life. It's too much life to fit into the luggage I have.

I leave the house, briefly, mail some packages. Buy a poster tube. Buy another piece of luggage.

The price is too much, too much. I google reviews. I remind myself now is not the time to be too picky.

I close my eyes when I pay.

~

Three days, three days.

Only three more days.

.

Rosie.

Before&After