A Man's Home is His Castle. Or Landfill. Or Pet Cemetary.

I have always wanted a home of my own. I am sure all of us underpaid wage-slaves do. As for myself, my dream is to build one on a secluded plot of land in eastern Ontario. But being the happy glass-not-half-empty-as-glass-has-fallen-off-the-fucking-table- and-is-now-reduced-to-a-bazillion-fragments kinda putz that I am, I have always had this dream backended with a nightmare. I see myself toiling away for years - pouring every ounce of blood, sweat and tears and hurtling bales of money at the home at warp speed - only to take a stroll one day around the perimetre and find, like, FIVE FUCKING DEAD BODIES! I suppose my first reaction would be utter horror. But then I would be all upset because had I known earlier, I could've negotiated better terms on the price of the lot.