It appears that drug addicts have made my old home, a place that was practically sacred to me, into a drug nest.
This hurts me deep down inside.
My dad built the first two parts with very little help. I helped with the third part of the house.
I had expected this to be knocked down already, given how fast the guy who bought the property from us wanted us out of there. It’s been 19 months, man. 19 months since he rushed us out of there, gave my mother grief because our search for a new home took longer than he wanted, and yet he’s done jack with it.
I wish I could have my old home back, just so I could clean up the place, and have a place to stay.
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