I am surrounded by boxes.
I have to go over an obstacle course to get to my door.
I’m typing this on my bed because my desk is covered with stuff.
But five months after everything went pear-shaped, I finally have a place to call home.
Home’s a funny thing. Home is, famously, where the heart is, but it’s also where the people welcome you, where you can hang your hat up, where you can put your feet on the furniture and your alcohol on the windowsill. Home is where you keep your crap, literal and figurative in more than one sense. Home is where no questions are asked and also where all the deep questions are asked. Home is when you can say that you’re stuffed and ready for bed and you can just go there. Home is re-discovering old clothes and old books. Home is baking at ten o’clock at night and rearranging the furniture to suit yourself.
cut.the.cookie 