No Place Like Home

Today is the beginning of a journey unspoiled by responsibility or requirement. That is the true definition of being a hobo, consequence free.

As I begin this journey I asked myself what differentiates me from the homeless on the street besides the obvious need to give hand jobs for crack. I guess it's simply nothing more than the fact that my boyish good looks allows me to be a charity case on my friends couch. Maybe I should set up shop downtown jingling my cup for change with a sign "will excel for food." Sad to say I will be a dime a dozen of ex-bankers littering the street waiting for someone to offer them a job, until then I will just cash my unemployed check and buy some malt liquor pouring out just a little for my fallen homies. I never knew Old Dirty Bastard and I would have so much in common.

For the first time in 6 years I have no real place to call home, that is completely mine. I guess when I take girls home from bars I can take the long ride on the Metra to Wisconsin, milk a few cows on the way, and pray she is too drunk to notice where I have taken her. All else fails I can always use the back seat in my SUV to relive the glory days of High School as she releases herself all over my leather. I guess I will need to ScotchGuard my entire car before I begin bringing girls back to my new apartment.

I am a bit like Dorthy in a magical land looking for my way home. With my red heels I am pretty sure I could find a home quickly in boys town, I just don't know if I am ready for leather and a ball gag. In the end I hope that soon I will click my heels and pronounce "There is no place like home" and find myself in my very own condo, fully furnished in the west elm catalog.