(no subject)
The strange thing about coming home is that I I never really can. That's always been the problem. It's easy to get nostalgic about and I like fantasizing about coming back here to hide from my life. But, it never feels right; I don't belong.
The snow is thick and beautiful and all the red orange wood feels like oil paint.
And I love that my cousins are geniuses and that one year old connor who doesn't really know me, kissed me.
And I love that I can play with dogs and am making cookies with my mom tomorrow. And I should be excited because I may be asked on a date by someone who doesn't make me cry nearly every night. And I should feel amazing because here, I have no responsibilities.
And I love that I look more like my mother every time I see her.
and I should feel, home.
Instead, I feel displaced.
It's early though. I haven't seen my friends yet. I haven't seen the water yet.
.
.
.
I also forgot how crazy my family is. My stepdad gave out the gag gift of himself naked in our backyard covered in only a stocking. it's in black and white though, so I suppose it's artsy. That night he drunkenly told me he was getting my mom a sexy little gun for christmas.
My dad is writing a fictional story based on his life. One passage admitted to sexual promiscuity and getting fucked by a pilot prior to his flight in a bathroom.
I've been home 24 hours. Haha.