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Quote by I.M. Millennial

“Land is expensive,’ my mother says with a shrug. ‘We built most of our first house ourselves from a kit set. You should do the same. Or you could live in a caravan for a while.’ Like most people our age, we could live in a caravan for several years and still not afford to buy land in a location near where we could find work. And even if we were to buy land, new building regulations and ever stricter environmental laws make it near impossible for anyone to build a house themselves, let alone live in a caravan while doing so. I know someone who tried living in a tiny home on her own land and lasted three months before the Boomer neighbours on each side of her property reported her to the council. She received a fine and was evicted from her own patch. Whatever property ladder existed before has been long ago pulled up by the Boomers and the Trailers who trail behind them.”

Quote by I.M. Millennial

Book:A Year in Boomertown: A Memoir
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A Year in Boomertown: A Memoir

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I.M. Millennial

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“Bailey, Ace and I continue to look for a place to live, and, it would seem, so is everyone else. In fact, word around Eden Perch is that a prosperous millennial woman from Boomer City has expressed interest in the scrubby lot that sits behind my parents’ home. According to my mother’s contact, the woman is not only interested in purchasing the land but also in building. With this revelation, the whole suburb is in an uproar. None of the other residents of Eden Perch want to buy the plot, but they don’t want anyone else to have it either. And now that someone else has shown interest, every objection comes crawling up to meet the challenge.”

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Book:A Year in Boomertown: A Memoir
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Book:The Despair of Monkeys and Other Trifles: A Memoir by Françoise Hardy
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“Laughing with blood relatives amidst memorable melodies in the background, styrofoam plate in hand, topped with foods that restaurants can’t duplicate, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Staring at an unbelievable sunrise from a balcony villa in Tanzania, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Hoping quietly for the best, to “win my husband over” with traditional submission, more frequent sex, and minimized speech, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Walking down a dusty Egyptian street filled with the welcoming laughter of carefree children, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Sitting in a church pew notating another good message, clapping to some of my favorite songs, and then exiting to talk with familiar faces, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Communing with those who know who the “real chosen” are, beholding their unknown names unmasked, and secret knowledges revealed to ponder incessantly, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Placed underneath the wanting body of a rare man who showed me unprecedented love, it hit me: I don’t belong here. My soul. My mind. My body. Each malnourished. My community. My life purpose. Both misplaced. All starving for home. So, I moved. Not to what looks and feels good for them, but to what”

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