I miss my home. Bad. Like really super duper bad. Like Lindsey Lohan misses insanity or her virginity or her cocaine. When I lived alond, albeit in a studio apartment that resembled more of a dorm room than anything else, I was lonely but still loved my alone time. When I moved into my one bedroom apartment, I was still lonely but was anxiously awaiting the arrival of Gus so really loved my alone time because I knew it wasn't going to be long before my alone time was forever gone. When I moved into my two bedroom apartment, I felt as if Gus and I were finally home. We each had our own bedroom, everything had it's own place, I decorated as much as my landlord would allow, I hung pictures, I got to know my neighbors. It was great.
I didn't think I would miss my little apartment this much. Since I graduate high school, I have lived in a dorm suite (with Schookems and Pooper), an apartment (with Ette), a house in New York, a house in Texas, and the three above mentioned apartments. I've gotten around. I really didn't think it'd be that big of a deal but what I didn't factor in was that this last place was my first real grown-up home, it was where my son took his first steps, it was where he first called me Mama, where he locked himself in the bathroom and nearly gave me a heart attack, where I threw my best friend her bachelorette party. That apartment held lots of memories and almost all of them good. I didn't have any drunken messes there, I didn't have any embarassing moments, I didn't watch my grandfather die than hold my grandmother while she cried when he did. That apartment was chalk full of happy memories and only happy memories. It's no wonder I miss it.
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