childhood homes, babe. a tour.
(aka places i survived, not lived)
house zero
0–2.5
first RO happened here*
just know it was a little ranch near the ocean
middle-of-nj blur—
philly left, nyc up, beach right—
lots of rage, slept at the daycare to hide
yes, shit was insane, bro
vibes were ✨ feral ✨
don’t remember—
thank god.
house one
age 2.5-14~
cul-de-sac
felt like a trap
the house my parents built
by “built” i mean:
• dad got giant white colonial pillars to feel like he was a colonizer
• mom got beat for trying to buy furniture on a sears credit card
there was primer on the walls for a full presidency
mom dumpster-dived trash-day furniture
sanded those bitches into matching sets
meanwhile dad always had cash
mom paid for groceries with change
and a calculator.
dad?
money just for flexing and funding my brother’s golden-child lifestyle
for his trophies & little-league glory
us? nada
backyard pool: literal danger zone
my dad turned that shit into the beat-your-ass olympics
version of jack nicholson in the shining
glass beer bottles flying like fucking mario kart shells
tried to swing at him more than once.
911 on speed-dial,
i remember sleeping
in a car, rv, shelter, grandmas—
adrenaline on tap
one time, he threw all our toys—
in the front yard,
broken.
huuuuuge raging dickhead.
broke my mom’s hand.
barricaded ourselves in 1 room—
for a year.
friends allowed? absolutely not.
sleepovers? if you wanna hear homeboy lose his shit.
survival rate? low.
shoutout to that one girl who wokeup with me
and said—
“it’s okay. my dad’s like this too.”
girl.
child abuse soulmate.
hated this place.
—
divorce
another RO
court-appointed therapist =
smokes weed with dad.
says he’s chill.
judge agrees.
custudy!!!
—
house two
age 14~
mom moves out,
house goes back to dad
trades my child support <3
can’t pay the bills.
because… logic??
nah—abuse.
she brought our shit to my granny’s like yooooo
shitty pull-out couch in her dusty office
freshman year coolgirl-vibes,
minus the home.
dial-up, no space, hated-it
dad kicked the first dog to death
mom ditched dog #2 because grandma’s a cunt
i bounced to my field hockey bestie’s house
her mom had three daughters and took me in
like an undomesticated stray
i thrived, clearly.
house three
age 15–18
still high school
mom bought a ranch out in fuck-nowhere
she needed a yard
not a condo
not the school district
a yard
it rotted for ten years
she was working 24/7
we moved in: no beds, air mattresses
furniture stacked like tetris in one room
chaos. plywood. bullshit.
i’d get dropped off at dad’s from school—
zero fucks.
sit there like live-fuck-you-bait
by sophmore year
i picked up a full grown adult man—
to pick me up from the bus-stop,
in a van.
he wrote a screamo song
called—
“how i managed to fuck a 15 year old”
very hardxcore.
but i mostly lived out of my car by then
crashed at boys’ houses + friends’ houses + party houses
anyone with couch and a lock on their door
last 911 call—dad fought a cop.
went to jail.
didn’t come to graduation.
home was wherever
college escape
freshman year
zero contact with daddy issues; blessed.
week 1: friend dies = jackson car crash.
fucking brutal | existential crisis
depression.
brother’s hot navy friend hurts my feelings.
(hits me up for the next 15 years)
nj felt like a casket.
ran away.
dipped to texas
austin. ut.
because babe,
my childhood homes were not giving
but freedom?
yeah,
she hits different.
hated them all.
loved texas.
