The Running-Into-a-Brickwall Feeling After You Get What You Want

  It's mine.

 Tiny bungalow is mine.

 Really freaking out.

 No more loud neighbors that spend all day smoking right outside my door so I have to hold my breath every time I enter or exit (we've got nice, quiet neighbors now--most of them are dead). No more thinking every noise at night is an escaped convict from the police holding station that's located right next to us. No more diarrhea-colored doors and carpet. (Just don't think about the lack of bathtub, Julia, don't think about the lack of bathtub)

  . . . Guess I should start packing?