Rubbish Man, Also Rubbish Duck, Ends Murder By Relative.

I own a house. Well, not own own, obviously. I'm not Scrooge McDuck. I have a mortgage and a building I can put shelves up in without checking with a shadowy overlord type first. It's nice. It puts me in the enviable position of not having to pay comparatively ridiculous rental prices, which will allow me to start collecting a different type of obsolete technology and fill the void in my soul with a better cable television package. Or go out more and meet people, but I'm increasingly coming to realise I might not need them, so probably just more VR games then. The joy is somewhat undercut by the reason I can afford to finally live the picking-out-laminate-flooring dream. There have already been too many times I had questions about how the hell power drills work, only to remember that the man I would usually pester to just do it, wasn't around to begrudgingly agree. However, after powering through the fifty-fourth or fifty-fifth realisation that I was a rubbish Man, I can now kind of use the drill. But without my inheritance, there was no way I could ever afford to own property.

Smug feathered prick.

I'm not brilliant with money, never have been. I'm a lot better than I was, but I have also recently gone on essential food shops and come back with jelly beans, chocolate twirls and a packet of indoor sparklers, so I'm not fixed. Even if I'd never wasted a penny, though, I'm not sure I'd have been able to save enough to buy. Maybe I could've, but you can forget the drunken weeks, the bleeding edge gadgets, the freedom of short sightedness. Having a child? Lol. Nope, saving for a house. Coming out tonight? Can't, I've seen some motorised leather recliners and now I'm behind. It would have been joyless and required me not be me, which, you'll have noticed, I am.

So, saving or not, I would have to wait for a large sum of money to appear. As for most people, it appeared to me after losing a loved one, and that makes it hard to revel in the gain. In part, the reasons for this are bloody obvious, you insensitive bastard, why can't you just let me heal?! But on another level, there is also a level of micro-guilt for being able to buy a house, when others around me, known and strange, can't. Some of them have saved what I consider to be coin pool filling amounts, all on their own, while maintaining at least the appearance of a social life, and they still can't get on the ladder. The property ladder. Keep up. That can't be right, can it? This is why people knock off their parents, or wealthy aunts or uncleses. This and them being broken somehow, on a human level, but that doesn't help to illustrate my point. Which is that if house prices were reasonable, there would be a sharp decline in Parricide, Patricide, Matricide, Avunculicide... all the Icides, pretty much.


Who christens their newly hatched duckling Scrooge, anyway? Pa and Ma McDuck must have been aware of the Dickensian roots, the namesake, the negative connotations. What sort of machiavellian sociopaths were Fergus and Downy McDuck? Scottish ones, that's what sort. Scottish ones with an unimaginatively named castle and an overly fleshed out history for a family of cartoon water birds. Like, actually quite complex. They could do a Who Do You Think You Are. I digress, but really, where did they get the baby name book? Wikipedia it. Anyway, yes, it's totes cray that we can't get a house without windfall, tragedy or criminal activity, all three at once if you want an ensuite, and that's stupid. Might be worth having a look again, mind. Prices are bound to have dropped a bit now - or  they soon will - on account of the world burning/suffocating/developing killer viruses/being populated by morons who insist that bump and grinding you in the fresh produce aisle is 'a safe fucking distance, mate'.

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