Jessica: Even Ebba Bush can’t live up to the Ninth Commandment

The ninth commandment. You should have no desire for your neighbour’s house.

Here, the show is specially designed for everyone of Stockholm’s ethnicity. Few ethnic groups are talking more and more about housing. Our sick housing installation is hard to treat because we are serious and happily co-dependent on all of our home addicts.

You can’t get enough of getting tired of housing prices beyond comprehension and living income. You have friends who like to close their eyes to what the neighbors got from their stash, perhaps in the hope that they can cash their money home.

Not even the epidemic remains for us Desire for the home of others. It just goes, from tariffs to pine trees, from smart square to acre size. And who can blame him? How can we expect a secular soul to be a goddess if not even Ebba Bosch is able to fulfill the ninth commandment?

As a rental activist, I look for kicks on the housing agency website. They scanned the site daily for many years for the dream lily. Extensive search for a redwood hut, near the sea, near the park, near the square, near the subway and the night emergency booth. Preferably about a hundred squares of the eighteenth century combined in lilac, pink and pear

I vehemently cursed everyone who stood between me and the few dreamers who have revealed themselves, thanks to decades of waiting. We would have liked to be the king of ash in the housing stories we retold of young leadership in the twenties. Those who look to a group of six men in the third hand to avoid becoming a mambo.

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One of the few Instagram accounts that I follow avidly is called #somewhereiwouldliketolive. It provides a pictorial passage to totally incomparable homes around the world.

Favorite is a hammock Like a safe rock, it sways on a cloud-level glass balcony. Clearly tampered with, it still reminds me of my grandmother’s favorite hymn “I’ve heard of a city above the clouds, above the misty land of earth.” A funeral hymn matches well with the homes you are dying for.

In fact, you heard me say this week, “Here I can die.” After decades in a barely livable yard, I am close to dreaming. The second in Toumba is not a hundred square meters, but has a balcony and traces of a prehistoric tile stove. It is not close to the sea, plazas or subways. But it is fairly close to gravel road, lake and shuttle.

Regardless of whether the journey ends here, I wonder if I was cured. Do I stop longing for plaster of others? Should I, like tinderfreaks, stop scanning housing sites for something else – or someone else – now that I have a sucker? Have you found a home and a home for me and not my neighbor?

Here it is good to be.

is reading More kåserier by Jessica, For example On the longer withdrawal of the eighth commandment.

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