Thanks to A.J. for asking me to fill in this week. My newsletter is here if you’d like to sign up.

In my favorite, very famous, Simpsons reference, Marge is working as a realtor who’s showing a dilapidated house. Its edifice falls, revealing Lenny, eating out of a tin can. The shame seems to chill him as his eyes turn to teardrops and he begs, “Please don’t tell anyone how I live.”

I thought of Lenny today when I came across a column of ants that found a morsel in my kitchen sink. I thought of him last week when I noticed a new crack in my 73-year-old house’s textured walls, relieved that it’s jagged, since a straight one might indicate a shifting foundation. When a solicitor comes to the door, I’m as annoyed as anyone, but I also carry a fear of judgment: Don’t look in too closely and see that I was playing Hades II on the Nintendo Switch while dusting potato chip shards off my running shirt when you arrived. They’re organic potato chips. I got them at Whole Foods.

I pursued dating a realtor recently, but no real spark came about. It’s just as well, since I imagined her visiting, immediately thinking I lived in a teardown as I explained that it was the previous owner who badly installed the bathroom vanity, that the leak that follows washing your hands is caught by a metal bowl beneath, and yes, I have been here for six years. I imagined her judging my priorities, since I’ve accumulated something like 900 vinyl records over that span.

Two weeks ago, I stumbled upon a solution to all of it: a new job. I applied for a position that would pay more, the company was interested, and I drove to Houston. I talked about myself for an hour, then drove back. The interview went well, and I fully expected to get called back for a second round. The job would be in a more corporate environment, with a compensation increase of at least 50 percent.

I drew this cartoon over sushi at the Whole Foods in Houston’s Fourth Ward because I was over an hour early.