My Own Everything

Last night I returned to my apartment.

I was away in a land overflowing with an embarrasing amount of sweets and filet mignon and big opulent pink houses with overstuffed chairs and egos. This land was far far away from my life here in my small salty apartment with walls damaged by the incompetent electrician and drafty old windows and creaky wooden floors with spaces between them where dust collects, with no toaster or tv or this or that.

Last night I lit a candle and put it in the middle of my uncluttered living room floor and I shut the lights off. I breathed a sigh of relief to be home in my apartment where people care about what I do for a living and what I think about things. Where there are no older brothers to tell me my feet look big and where I am not forever metaphorically at the kids table. Where I can blog in confidence that my thoughts are valid just because they are my thoughts.

I am whole again now that I am home and alone. I am an adult here and the pots need cleaning and I have to make my own everything.

Thank you for the lovely gifts family, but I hope you never find me here.