I have been watching HGTV lately and they have been heavily focused on these dinky domiciles called tiny houses. Yuppies relocating to the country, living in a place on wheels that measures, more often than not, somewhere in the 200 square foot range. This causes many issues, I presume, but the owners of these petite palaces claim their value in a savings of money and an increase in time of leisure.

Such a cramped space would seem like a problem to me and I am unsure if I could live in such a way. Would a closed quarters dump be worth the extra money to fund a vacation to a beach? I am not certain that the value is there. I often go to the porcelain palace to get away and take a recess from the trials and tribulations of the day. A moment of zen and nirvana can be found as the overhead exhaust fan plays its soothing sound and the contents of last night’s Cracker Barrel are ejected from my body. This moment is shot if my significant other is adjacent to the latrine watching Vanderpump rules.

A house on wheels does carry certain connotations, negative ones, at that, that I am afraid I just couldn’t shake. The potential benefit of pulling the thing to a different Wal-Mart parking lot every night would bring variety to one’s life, but isn’t something I’ve set as a personal goal and I do not care to show off this advantage during barbecues and other social interactions. I have a hard enough time making friends as it is, being able to pull my house with a Geo Tracker isn’t exactly the ice breaker I was looking for.

During one of the broadcasts of Tiny House on HGTV, some of the dwellers were traveling to a Tiny House convention in Colorado. Hitching their places on the back of their Prius’, they took their homes to the highway to show off their custom hidden compartments and fold down trays for cups and bowls. An event like this would come in handy, as you could see how others live in such tight spaces successfully. Like, how do you shit in solace, where do you put your dirty dishes to soak for 3 days, and does the combo washer/dryer dry the same load 5 times? Because it takes me a few cycles to gather the gumption to commit to fold the garments that have spent the better part of the week being dried over and over again as I pass out, yet again, with a beer in my hand watching reruns of George Lopez on TV Land until 3am.

A tiny house is intended to give one more money, which gives one more time, by freeing oneself of a bank mortgage and the jam that a big house can put you in. The inherent dinkyness of the thing doles out less work for the individual; a smaller house is easier to clean and easier to maintain. Not a selling point for me, as I can clean my current place in 15 minutes – wipe the projectile toothpaste off the bathroom mirror (because I can’t breathe out of my nose as I brush), grab a piece of toilet paper and clean the pee off my comfort station (because I like to relax), and, well, that’s probably it. Who really knows. Mechanically, keeping up the place would be easier and that is a sell for me. For example, when the batteries in the smoke detector go out, I can just reach up and hit the silence button and relieve the contraption of its warning beep for the next two years, as opposed to leaving the step ladder under the alarm for me to climb up at 2am to shut it off, or replacing the batteries, which is simply out of the question. Furthermore, you may not even need a smoke alarm. While sleeping in the bedroom, you’re coterminous with the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the laundry room, and the living room. So no real secrets in the way of smoke and fire and appliances left on. Which, actually, now that I think about it, an oven-fire explosion would blow the thing to the next Wal-Mart, so a smoke detector would actually be more necessary in a place that’s the size of a pop-up camper.

Having more time by way of having more money is something I would really like, but I would like secrecy in this matter of autonomy. What excuse would I now use to avoid hanging out with friends? I cannot be tight until payday, since my house says I have the money for the preemptory meal at Red Lobster. Oh how I enjoy talking about the weather and infants that haven’t shit in 5 days. Or, better yet, “how ya like that shrimp? Sure is good huh?” About as good as the microwave shrimp from the freezer at Save-A-Lot. It’s literally the same thing.

To make matters worse, everyone and their friends and family, and, worse of all, my own family, would want to come over and see the house. Having a house of normal proportions, one can simply hide behind the recliner or run upstairs to hide from potential visitors, but with a one room bungalow, there is nowhere to hide. What are you gonna do, hide in the washer/dryer combo? That’s your best bet because you live in a place where every room is one and the same. All people have to do is look in and say, “Yep, Quentin’s home, I can see his head sticking out of the dryer. Is he drinking again?” Never mind hiding from Brother David from the Holy Tabernacle over on 108th; he’s here with Jesus to save you, right at the front door looking right at you, right now!

The paragraphs you have just wasted your life with I wrote over the span of two days. A little here and a little there; I have a new year’s resolution to write 500 words per day. So, what you’ve read was done out of self-loathing and my reluctance to write consistently. Garbage or not, 500 words go on my mac. I’ve made zero resolutions in the way of food or drink – I’ll continue to do as I wish with those things.

Where I was going with my prose schedule is that I’ve had time to evaluate the pros and cons of the tiny house in my spare time while writing this essay; I have come to the conclusion that I am ready to venture into the social movement of a little home. The above concerns are ones I can deal with. The money I would save would be a big deal. I could do a lot with the extra funds in my account. Though, with the tiny house life, I’d probably pull my money out of the banks to match my modus operandi, put the dough in Maxwell House canisters, and bury them out yonder.

Hey, y’all, let’s hit the road. Unplug the shitter and hitch her up. We’re going to Ponderosa.

That’s freedom.