I've bought a house, or rather I've bought an apartment in part of a TIC in San Francisco which constitutes one quarter of a house. TIC stands for Tennancy in Common, which is kind of like a co-op in New York City and essentially means that while I'll have my own apartment, all four TIC members are mutually responsible for the one loan. What that basically means is that if one or more of the other people on the loan decides they're too strapped to cough up the cash one month then the rest of us have to find some way to cover their delinquent arses. Welcome to San Francisco real estate. Ultimately the goal is to get the house through the condominium conversion process, but that involves a lottery that can take upwards of eight years to pass. We're chained to each other now, married together by our idiotic desire to buy a chunk of dirt in one of the most overheated housing markets in the country, if not the world.
Coughing up large sums of money is nerve-racking. Yesterday, as part of the closing process, a wire transfer was made from my Morgan Stanley account to some mysterious number at Wells Fargo. It really could have been anyone's. I'm giving them over $100,000 - nearly all of my wealth - to some nameless money grubber at Wells Fargo. Holy shit, it shouldn't be that easy to gut yourself of everything you earn. Well, I suppose it is. That's why we have casinos.
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