Home Is Where My Clothes Are

My apartment has been, is now, and most likely will be for the rest of its brief life, a crash pad.


(If my landlord reads this: I am not planning to arsonize my apartment. Or blow it up, or destroy it in any way. Remember that part where I said "for the rest of its brief life"? That was neither a threat, a promise, nor a warning. It was just my way of saying "I won't be living here for the rest of my life. I probably won't be living here a year from now, actually."


This addendum is now 4x as long as the body of this post, and we are desperately off-topic. In sum, landlord, we cool.)


My apartment is a crash pad. I don't live here, really. I don't make memories here. I don't even make food here usually. Not what most people mean when they talk about food.


I stop in occasionally, is kind of what I'm trying to say.


(Oh, and I get millions of pageviews every hour. So stop laughing at the possibility that my landlord might read this post. In terms of Adoring Fans, I am the king.)


So tonight I came back home--


There. I did it.


Before tonight, I never once thought of my apartment as "home". Not like I was uncomfortable here. Not like I had some other place that was "home". I never referred to this place as "home" in my mind, is all.


Until tonight. 


It was unique. I haven't really felt "at home" somewhere since the summer of 2009.


I like that feeling.


Too bad the lease is up in about six months.


Long live the Stream.