Townhouse. It’s not an apartment. It’s not a house. Townhomes are fused versions of both, and I like them. Though connected to multiple other units, we had our own garden area (however small is no matter), and we had stairs. It was like a slow progression of the American Dream. You know, the one with the white picket fence. The neighborhood sucked sometimes however. Driving through the neighborhood you see the poverty, hear the vulgar and ignorant vocabulary, and one could smell illegal narcotics. Not always. It was enough though, to make one not proud of where they call home. I should not judge or be so negative about the neighborhood. It did help cultivate the man I am today. I had some good times in the old neighborhood, mostly because my family was all about trying to improve one self. I am constantly growing. Maturing and learning. I may not be where I want to be in life, but I am on my way and I must admit that my childhood neighborhood has assisted with that. No matter how small that assistance was.
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