Once upon a time, I had a friend who was a realtor. He liked to sell houses and condos and be involved in business transactions and be professional and ask all his young friends if they wanted to buy houses.
Which was cute, and helpful, and terrifying.
Which caused me to stress out again, and die, and be very sad, and decide that I was doing everything wrong, and be afraid about money, and judge other people by whether or not they could buy houses, and then just generally start spiraling down the staircase of depression.
Then I wrote about it. And did not die. And thought about a brick vicarage in Cambridge, and all the parsonages I grew up in and how I never thought I would have to/think about/be able to buy a house. Ever. And how now is a great time to start thinking about it, but perhaps later is fine, as well.
Turmoil and angst and wishing for a miracle. Is this how everyone feels?
I'm still disquieted in my spirit.
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