GPT GONZO Last Time in the House I Grew Up In By: Some Ghost with a Dirty Past I slammed the front door harder than I meant to. The sound echoed through the bones of the house like a gunshot in a mausoleum. This was it—the last stand, the final goodbye, the end of the end . My childhood home. The place that birthed my traumas, taught me how to curse, and raised me on leftover pizza and Cartoon Network. Now the walls were stripped bare, the old couch was in the driveway like some executed prisoner, and my room—the warzone of posters, dust, and adolescent shame—was empty, silent, too clean . I took a deep breath of rotting carpet, paint thinner, and ghosts . Everything smelled like memory and mildew. “This is where I punched my brother in the face,” I told the empty hallway, hoping the drywall still remembered. “Right here. Over a Hot Pocket.” The hallway didn’t answer. Coward. I found myself wandering to the kitchen—the nuclear core of the whole operation. How many arguments had we had...