1. FEMA basically told us all to suck it. They count basements only if they are sleeping spaces, mine is obviously barely suitable as a "most expensive appliances storing space" since it is a "turd collection and festering space". So, yeah. That's nice.
2. I guess I'm moving. I don't now when, or where or anything, but we can't do this anymore. We can't afford to do this anymore. I have no idea how the hell I am going to sell this house, but I'mma try to do it. We are painting and sprucing like a pair of mofos right now. Kitchen is going from applemint to sky blue (called bubble) and pretty blue bedroom is half painted "steamed milk" with "extra white" trim. Yeah, it's exciting. I may very well have to sell it to a house flipper. I don't feel great about that, but I also don't know what to do. The Man? Is all for selling it to the first bastard who will agree to buy it for any price. So we will finish the painting projects, but we will get some feedback from an investor or a realtor before we embark on fixing the plaster ceiling in the living room. From the roof leak that seems fucking impossible to ever fix EVER.
3. I am basically freaking out about all of it. All the time.
it's not helping that he decides to paint the kitchen while it's still dirty, does not pack anything up and just carries it all to a clean room and farking leaves it, all piled up precariously, and then walks away. Like this:
This does not make me happy, not even a little tiny bit. It makes me bitchy. A whole LOT.