I failed to mention that I went home this past weekend. I gave my mom and dad strict orders a number of weeks ago NOT to change their usual Friday ritual of the local mexican place and margaritas.
They did not. And it was a superb night, with great times had by all.
I like that I can go home, and even though most of my stuff now resides in an apartment, I still feel like the bed in which I sleep is my own. And I will always be welcome there–even if “my room” happens to take shape somewhere else. I think it might have something to do with the fact I picked out the sheets.
They love me there. And I can always count on that, which is comforting for someone who can never seem to sit still.