212 Troup Ave.

Everyone loves a good board game. It's for this reason I ask you to take yourself way back in the day to the good ole' days and fond memories of the game of Life. You know you've played it. Don't deny that there was once a day that you cheated on a space or two just to be able to place those little pink peg twins in your tiny plastic caravan. In the game of Life you get an option of three cards for possible houses. You close your eyes and hope that you don't reach for the house that no one wants any part of. The Split-Level. The Split-Level "Was one level before the 'quake. Now a real fixer-upper for adventurous folks!" It's real estate value comes out as a whopping 40 g's. Am I posting this to take a jog down memory lane with you about the game of Life? Absolutely not. I'm posting this as a continuation on my previous post about karma. All those times I cheated in Life, making sure I never obtained the diminutive card revealing the Split-Level finally came back to bite me in the ass. I now dwell in a place quite similar to that dreaded $40,000 valued card. The good news is it was built before the 70's posing a threat to the tenants because of the possibility of lead-based paint. Perfect. We call it the Doll House. Not because we're so vain as to consider ourselves as faultless as dolls, no... simply because a full grown man could not stand upright in the kitchen without dusting the ceiling with his head. There's a hill in my bedroom. The floor is so warped that you can literally push a chair through the open door and it will roll with forceful acceleration towards the opposite wall. Word of the wise: If you ever endure the pleasure of visiting the Doll House I would highly recommend that you do not stand in one end of the house and try to look at the other end. Unfortunately, the walls are inverted and you will feel like you are in some sort of carnival fun house. Looking back to the good ole' days of the game of Life, in retrospect maybe I should have welcomed the Split-Level with open arms (or lack there of since those little peg people don't have any appendages) seeing as I now inhabit a midget version of it. Welcome home.