I guess I just signed my life away today. I’m 38 and I’m sitting on the floor of this... well, it’s a house, I suppose. It smells like wet wool and old drywall. My partner is asleep in the other room on a literal pile of coats because we haven’t even moved the mattress yet. We signed the papers this afternoon and my hand was shaking so hard I thought the notary would think I was having a medical emergency or something. It’s a lot of money. Like, an obscene amount of money for someone who spent their twenties painting murals for 'exposure' and warm beer. I don't know if this counts as a confession, but I think I’m terrified. The thing is, we don't know how to do anything. Like, literally anything. I looked at a YouTube video on how to patch a hole in the plaster earlier and I just... I had to turn it off because my brain felt like it was short-circuiting. I’m an artist, right? I should be good with my hands, or whatever. But there’s a difference between a palette knife and a crowbar and I’m starting to realize I might be totally out of my depth here. The previous owner—this guy with calloused hands and a flannel shirt—he looked at me like I was some kind of fragile orchid. He said "She’s got good bones," talking about the house, but I think he saw through us immediately. I’m pretty sure we’re just two kids playing house in a structure that’s actively trying to collapse. We’ve put every single cent into this. My entire inheritance from my grandmother, plus the meager savings from my 'real' job as a graphic designer. It’s our entire patrimony, if you want to be fancy about it, but mostly it just feels like we’ve lit a match and held it over a puddle of gasoline. People our age are supposed to be established, I guess. They have 401ks and they know what a 'joist' is. I don't even know where the main water shut-off valve is. I’m just... I’m sitting here in the dark wondering if we’re going to lose it all. The bank is going to come back in a year and see that we’ve accidentally flooded the basement or something and they’ll just take it. And honestly? I don't think I’d even be that upset. It’s just kind of... whatever. My partner kept saying "It’s an investment, it’s sweat equity," which is such a ridiculous phrase when you think about it. Sweat equity. I’m sweating right now but I don't feel any wealthier. I think maybe they’re just as scared as I am, but they’re better at pretending. We went to dinner after the closing and I couldn't even taste the pasta. It felt like chewing on rubber. I kept thinking about the inspection report—the part about the 'efflorescence' on the foundation walls. Such a pretty word for something that basically means the house is rotting from the inside out. Kind of like my bank account, I guess. Or my confidence. I don't know. I’m looking at the ceiling right now and there’s this water stain that looks a bit like a Rorschach test. I see a sinking ship. Or maybe just a damp spot. It’s hard to tell in this light. I keep waiting for that feeling people talk about—the pride of homeownership, the "we did it" moment—but it hasn't come. I just feel hollow. Like I’ve committed a very slow, very expensive form of social suicide. I mean I don't even—whatever. I’m probably just tired.