I'm pretty sure I'm homeless now.  Not in the sense of living out of a shopping cart, yet, but as in no longer possessing a corner of the planet with a deed in my name, or my bank's name.  I don't think I own my house any more.

I dunno, though.  It's all vague and sketchy and reliant on a too incommunicative for me to stand lawyer-type chick.  Theory is that at some point today, a UPS envelope will come with my name on it.  Inside will be one of them there check gizmo pieces of paper that banks run on.  It should have many zeroes (many being a relative term in my humble single-digit existence).

Then, I will go to a bank, and I will be a thousandaire.

I will have no debt (apart from the credit cards I use and pay each and every month).  I will fantasy greatly about changing my name, stuffing the cash in a duffel bag and going off the grid.  I will be Henry David Thoreau meets the Unibomber, but with a little more of a greeting card over letter bomb sensibility.  My stage name will be Henry Dee-Rob Kasinsky.  I will move to the woods in order to live life with more hilarity.

Seriously, no debt, no address, sweet, sweet homeless fantasy living.   A thousandaire.