Tag Archives: Kid Cudi


I want a quaint little house with you.

One with lots of windows and wood floors. It will have a big backyard that we’ll fill with plants and flowers, and a porch where we’ll hang lights and spend warm evenings drinking shandy or wine.

We’ll have a big basement, or a great big room, where you can set up all of your recording equipment and I will never complain how much noise your bands make, because I’ll be so in love and so happy watching you do what you love the most. I’ll bring beers and snacks during breaks, and I’ll read in the corner while you guys track.

I’ll have an old wooden desk where I can spread out papers around my computer when I’m working on articles and editing. I’ll have a typewriter table, too, for those nights when I feel so inspired I might burst.

We’ll spend the most time in the kitchen, cooking and smiling and talking over hot coffee and vegetables from our yard. A baby dachshund, or a pug (because honestly, I’d cave on that and let you get the pug, even though now I whine when you suggest it), or maybe even both, will bounce around our feet, and we’ll lay down on the hard floor to cuddle and play with him until he wears himself out and falls asleep. Then we’ll smile, and your eyes will have that look that say I’m the only thing that matters in the world in that moment, and we will lay so still, so as not to wake our little pup. It will be perfect.

And maybe this will be here, not so far from where you live now. Maybe it will be far away, in Chicago or Austin or San Francisco or France. It doesn’t much matter where it is, as long as I’m there with you.

This is the first time I’ve pictured a real future with someone, had a definite goal, had the focus and drive to spend my days off plowing through job applications for reasons bigger than myself. I want things to be better, for you, for me. I will do whatever I can to meet you there.

I’m on the pursuit of happiness
And I know everything that shines ain’t always gold
I’ll be fine once I get it, I’ll be good, good.


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