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11 Apr

I need an apartment.

But that’s only sort of what this is about. This is about  perpetually clean sheets and mattresses made of memory foam, cinnamon rolls on Sundays, and  the feeling I get whenever I listen to Al Green and Steely Dan. In short, it’s about home…whatever that means.

I took a little (actually 3 hours long…#fconstruction) trip to Madison this weekend to see the fam. Although I haven’t lived at my mom’s in quite a while (well, besides that quick little stint last spring, but that shit was beyond my control) whenever I go there, I still refer to it as ‘home’. Not uncommon, I know. After all, home, for many of us, is where we lived growing up. For fewer of us, it’s where we stored our beanie baby collection that was tragically stolen by our older brother’s punk-ass friends, it’s from where we were evacuated at 4am because our brother and his punk-ass friends set the basement on fire, and it’s where we learned that the behavior of our older brother and his punk-ass friends really set the bar pretty low and exhausted our mom, yielding a very lenient adolescence, discipline wise. You know, memories and whatnot. (I love my brother, by the way, and we rehash this stuff all the time.)

But it also has things like memory foam mattresses, Eames chairs, a kitchen with god damn counter space, a garden. It’s comfortable.

But is it comfortable because of all of the nice cozy things? Because of the people?  Because of the feeling of some sort of permanency?

Whatever it is, this little dungeon/garden-level studio with a view (sort-of of the lake, but moreso of people doing it just outside my window. #true) doesn’t have it. As I hunt and hunt and hunt and hunt for a new apartment, I’m wondering what and when it is that the place you live becomes a ‘home’ rather than just a place to keep all of the stuff you’ve accumulated since you left your parents house. I want comfort. I’m not saying I need the dream (dog, fireplace, chef’s kitchen, record player that plays while I cook dinner in chef’s kitchen, etc.) just yet. I want to feel at home. Or maybe I’m just sick of moving every 6 months.


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