The first thing I did when the government kicked me out was put my money towards a good use: an investment. I went directly to a real estate office and, paying in cash, bought the property that we now stand on. It cost half of my savings, but, at the time, I thought it would be worth it. After all, I had half of my savings still remaining, nearly 10,000 simoleons. And I planned to immediately turn the property into a revenue generator: a coffee shop.
Jane: “This was worth 10,000 simoleons?
Jane: “Don’t panic. Don’t panic. It’ll be an adorable coffee shop in no time.”
I see the way you’re looking at me. Yes, the coffee shop downstairs, I planned that from the very beginning. My dream has always been to be an author, of course. That was what I wanted for my career. But, as I said, I hadn’t been the best student, and I knew it would take some time to publish a book that would make me any substantial money. So, in the meanwhile, I wanted to sell coffee. I was young, but I thought it would be rather neat, to be a writer living above a coffee shop. Quaint. Like in a storybook.
But my visions of immediate profit from selling coffee and, perhaps, my own novels, was not my destiny. Not at first. For that was when the heirloom arrived.
Jane: “What? Just… what?”
Jane: Just because I’m smiling doesn’t mean I don’t hate everything.
I hated it. It was ugly. Not just in its appearance, but in its meaning. This was an heirloom from a grandmother I had never met, the mother of parents who hadn’t wanted me. It was a reminder, a curse, not a gift.
And it was to become far more of a curse. For the heirloom, it turned out, was not the only thing that my grandmother had bequeathed unto me. Indeed, as it happened, she had also left me the bulk of her estate. Which would have been a gift, had she not been thousands of simoleons in debt. Even after selling all of her assets and properties, she still owed almost 10,000 simoleons.
Which, at the moment, I had.
This gift from my grandmother had not been a gift at all, as it turned out. It was money pit, a drain of all but 7 simoleons of my savings. I had enough money to buy a bowl of cereal. But not nearly enough to remodel the property into a coffee shop. Now, all I had was a great ugly statue, a shack of home lacking even a bed and a kitchen, and a great deal of uncertainty. How was I meant to survive, much less become an author?
Janie: “They called this a ‘one bed, one bath.’ Bullshit.”
Janie: “Not all the walls have paint on them.”
Janie: “This is not a bed, it is a bench.”
Janie: What have you done to me, grandma?”