Okay! Since the last of the paperwork needing signatures is all on someone else, I went ahead and moved my stuff out of the crappy hotel and onto the floor of the new place.
On the map above, I've designated the house (bottom center) with a white star.
As you may have noticed, I'm a sucker for history.
From the great northward beaver migration where we finally stuck it to those Canadian freaks through giant rodent re-distribution to the crazy time a bunch of rich people were throwing money as fast as they could at anything with computers in it only stopping when they heard, "Wait. What? You want this money back?", the past is fun for me.
Sure, there is a lot to be learned from history, but I tend to more enjoy poking fun at our primitive ancestors for the most part. I mean, like, what are they going to do about it?
This street has history. That's what I liked most about it, probably.
Not just crime scene tape history, either. Important history.
See, the street was built by Dave Thomas, or (more likely, though records are incomplete) people hired by Dave Thomas.
And the house I've marked with the killer robot, the house right across the street from the house where I'm typing this very post, was Wendy's house. There is a plaque and everything.
This house has fast food history, internet. And hardwood floors.
When I step onto the back porch, I can feel in the air the kind of tingle that would lead a person to invent a Frosty Dairy Dessert or (more likely, though records are incomplete) hire someone to invent a Frosty Dairy Dessert. Or maybe just go get a Frosty Dairy Dessert because I skipped lunch.
I feel I finally I know what it means to be living life to its most Biggie size.
Also, in less than a week my family will be here, which will be awesome.
And the house has a cable modem since I picked one up this morning on my way over, so I'll share that with them. It seems the least I can do (though records are incomplete).
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