Where do I live? From my point of view I live in a Winnebago Brave at a long string of RV parks. However, the rest of the world sometimes has trouble accepting that.
If you don’t know, our RV has electrical, water, sewer and cable TV hookups, plus a furnace, stove, refrigerator and water heater. You know, like a house.
This train of thought began when we tried to sign up for a cyrptocurrency trading web site. Anything other than living in a permanent structure to them is homeless. But they aren’t the only ones.
Technically, we are residents of Florida. That’s where our mail goes, and that’s where we spend quite a bit of time. However, Florida considers us partial residents at best. Everything involving us in Florida has an asterix. We aren’t allowed to vote. They do call me for jury duty, but when I point out that it’s just a mailing address, they excuse me. The RV is registered in Florida though.
There is a public library in a certain city that thinks I still live in that city. However, that library has many homeless patrons, so I don’t get noticed. Pat’s card just expired, so I’m afraid mine might not be far behind.
Election officials in a certain state where we actually sit for the longest time each year, think I live in a certain city in that state. So that’s where we vote.
My Doctor thinks I live in Lake City, FL. I’ve told her I don’t, but it’s stuck in her head that I do.
My cell phone has a San Francisco area code.
Our Amazon account has over a dozen addresses for us.
When I want to get rid of someone, mostly salespeople, I tell them I live in a truck.
My online profiles usually list my location as “all over the place.”
The media in San Francisco would say we’re vehicularly housed.
Just try to get a covid test when you live on the road
The band The Who would call me “An Air-Conditioned Gypsy.”
To tent campers I’m a glamper. To real glampers I’m a peasant.
So there it is. Homeless is in the eye of beholder.