Flea and Queer

On Saturday, we paid off our mortgage. It took 11 years of fairly aggressive payments. We walked into the bank and wrote them a cheque for the balance and now the house is ours.

This is pretty damn exciting not only because it means we're debt-free and don't have to make payments every month, but because our home is so damn important to us. We don't really ever intend to move. Ever. We're homebodies. Homebase kind of guys. Mothership lurkers.

On the other hand, it's strangely anti-climactic. It's numbers on paper and an intellectual illusion. As I said to briseur on the phone, it's not like there was some banker named Neal who had been sitting on our living room couch all the these years. We didn't get to say, "Neal, pack up your sorry banker ass and hit the road!"

But we took time to celebrate. We went to the St. Lawrence Market (which is pretentious and yuppy and overpriced) and bought elk and wild boar sausages from a guy who raises elk (though not boar... If you raise boar are they still "wild boar"?) and washed them down with fine beer from Guelph, Ontario.

I don't know how to end this post. Points in the future that you dreamed of for years turn out to just be moving motes in the river. Go know.