Here's a picture of a second-story back window in my new place. I'm no ballistics expert, but that's a bullet hole. Someone shot my house. I live in a shooting neighborhood. I could get shot while I write this. This article is a blood article. Think about that. All my fluids, all up in these words. Dripping into your brain. Into your soul. Into your most precious crevices. And then bang, now I haunt your crevices.
You need to walk your potential new neighborhood before deciding on any new house. Do you know what's down the street from me? Some kind of hippie fuck farm made of rocks and garbage. The saying "I can't even" probably came from people walking by this place. It's like a fenced-in trash lot overseen by an artist who constantly drinks gasoline. There are trash sculptures and weird rock formations all over their front yard, which is insanely huge, because the house was built at the back of their entire property. So all they have is front yard -- just yards and yards of trash-covered front yard.
As an artsy fellow myself, I appreciate the eclectic and unusual. But this is art on the scale of a monkey that sat with Patrick Swayze behind him at a pottery wheel, and they made some deformed flower pots to old-timey sensual music. Then they installed it next to a ball of rusty bike chains with a bird feeder sticking out of it.