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Returning from Africa and Holland, I moved into a friend's home whose father mistakenly rented to a drug dealer, who they call "hippie." Hippie trashed the place. On the outside it looks quite nice, and the location is perfect, with a great view, but inside the house is a disaster. On the left is one of the many night-vision security cameras that hippie left. He left nearly everything - after being forced out by the city and when the police took an interest. Many truck loads of junk were taken to the dump.
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Walls were covered with graffiti and others painted black. Doors and windows were broken, and parts of ceilings ripped out. I spent a great deal of time sanding, painting, sweeping, and loading up the trucks with junk. The landlord will have the kitchen and bathroom redone. I'm paying a reduced rent until the place is fixed up to liveable standards. After a two month trip I don't feel settled - like I'm still on the move. It's strange not having a home. I can't wait to get back to work and have some friends over for dinner. My girlfriend, Debbie Holseth, tries on the dress and jewelry I brought back from Africa.