I used to live in a tarp; that was the ex-tent of my housing.
The government built a cattle barn for the poor. It was afford a bull housing.
The cutest housing accessory? It’s absolutely a door bell.
The uncleaned spaces between my bathroom tiles aren’t merely disgusting; they’re groutesque.
I spat gum out onto a wall – and now it’s gotten stucco.
Buying three dozen head of cattle nearly wiped me out. Then I bought four more. I really need forty bull housing.
Millions of Americans are unable to quit their jobs to join choirs. It’s a crisis of affordable how-sing.
I want to sip warm rooibos chai in my hipster dwelling. It’s my loft tea ambition.
The Founding Fathers approved of suburban spawl. When I gaze upon the endless tracts of houses in cookie-cutter subdivisions, I am reminded of their words, that “all manor created equal.“
I live in a leaky German submarine. It’s my humble uboat.