This story isn't about David Harbour. Or Lily Allen.
It's about my green, jealous rage. It's about a 20-something woman who wants want they have, but likely never will.
Specifically, their absurd, late-19th-century brownstone in Brooklyn, New York.
Because, if you'll indulge me for a second, there's nothing worse than a beautiful home that is millions and millions of dollars out of your price range.
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When a celebrity has a home I don't particularly enjoy, I relish it. I criticise the bedrooms and 'open plan' spaces with glee. I tear apart all the ugly artwork with all of its beige and white. I make known the fact I detest kitchens that are decorated with one lemon and a single black kettle. I reason that it must be so painful to be so wealthy with such bad taste.
But Allen and Harbour's home, in all its stupidity, in all its grandeur, is my dream home. And now I feel bad for being poor, so thanks a lot, guys.
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