Southern comfort.

My grandmother was a landlord, my mother is a landlord, and I will be a landlord as well. This depresses me considerably, not because I have a problem with the profession in question, but because I am afraid the Southeastern United States is the only region where the career change I’ve embarked upon is viable.

I am in Georgia and I am miserable. I have been to Alabama; I was miserable. I have been to Florida; I was miserable. The oppressive heat, the conservative culture, the massive insects, the insufferably long commutes to access any commercial or industrial district—I cannot stand it. Of course, were I a Republican Christian man who loved to drive and adored the great outdoors, this would be the best place on earth. The South isn’t a bad place in general; it’s just bad for me.

The plus side? Houses here are cheap. How cheap? A well-crafted, modest home in a safe area can be purchased and paid for in full for roughly half the US median household income.

Actually, I just had an epiphany while typing the previous sentence. I am not going to stay here! It’s as simple as that. I’d rather own a couple of trailers in California than settle for brick ranches in Georgia.

Oh, man! I can’t even imagine what my grandmother’s Brooklyn brownstone would go for now.

ETA: I just looked it up—roughly $800,000. Yeah, unless I win the Powerball tomorrow, I won’t be moving back to the old neighborhood! Actually, if I won the Powerball, I wouldn’t bother buying a home at all. I’d be too busy traveling and setting up meetings with geek moguls and culture mavens.