The Depiction Of An Eviction.

Owning a home might be a fantastic thing but it’s something I’ve never known. I have rented for over twenty years and until this writing gig sees daylight, this will no doubt remain. And in these two decades or so of move-ins, move-outs, cleanings and rental agreements, I have never felt duped until last week.

It’s fair to say had I read the contract in its entirety, this proverbial trickery would not have come to fruition. Typically, if there is something noteworthy or important, it would be pointed out by the person who wrote the document to the document reader. Secondly, I’ve never felt the need to have a lawyer present when perusing a simple rental agreement, nor will I in the future.

Let me explain the scenario so you get where I’m at. About a week ago, I receive an email via the interwebs from my landlady who, over the past year, has been more of a let down than any previous landperson. Anywho, it basically was a reminder that we are required to be moved out by noon on August the 31st. Yes, 2019.

Jaw kinda sorta dropped. With fiddle in hand, a sad song can be played considering the recent grand theft auto, the health issues and all of life’s other rigamaroos. And now this? But wait..aside from normal tenant/landlord conversation about “do we extend the lease/do you want to stay” talk, I should be given at least the 90 days to get the flip out. Nope, she wouldn’t even be humane enough to offer such a thing.

Apparently, and unbeknownst to me, their was a clause in the contract stating this is a one year fixed term, meaning that’s that, no extension. Had I known this, I would never had moved in. The landlady’s ex, the guy who originally showed me the place, was quite sympathetic to my current story then of having to look for a new place because the current owners decided they wanted to sell. This guy was privy to the fact that I was looking for long term, yet he was down with that clause.

So now I’m in shock. Well, then. Last week. Greater shock maybe than the morning I realized my truck had been stolen. The shock that debilitates, me anyways. I can’t focus. I can’t process things normally. I’m too taken aback to stand back up and press on. That doesn’t happen until the next day. But like the sun after a storm, acceptance takes place and we move on, quite literally in this situation.

Now I’m looking at the brights. We’ll be two blocks from my girls school so there will be no more “daddy we missed the bus” texts at work. I’ll be saving $500 a month at the new place and that, my friends, is a pretty penny. Or 50,000 but who’s counting. Oh and there’s a garage though big enough for maybe a smart car. A good jam spot for a future band, however. Just spitballing.

So here I am, living my life like a mofo. Crap coming at me from all sides and I’m smack in the middle, juggling all these moving parts while the world burns. It’s what we survivors do, it’n it? ‘Til my next unraveling. Peace.

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