Well, we’re back home. If you can call it that. I mean, I actually own this actual house. And it has a fireplace and a boyfriend and the pantry is full of things to make real meals. Are these the things that make it home? We had the family over for Sunday roast, there was even a baby here that I LOVE. Still, it’s not (or I’m not) quite there yet. It’s like I can’t be all the way me here-twenty percent of me has gone pins and needles and isn’t able to bear my full weight.

The trip back home(?) to Texas was really good. It felt just the way it should. Melty cheesey, spicey, tequila-y, funny, friendsy, family. Ash and I got along better than we have since the very beginning. I was me 100% with all the extra New Zealand homemaker, homeowner goodness baked in and sprinkled on top. It smelled right, like live oaks and charcoal briquettes and sounded right like “iced tea” and “toobs.” I missed here though, but now that I’m back I feel like my cup cake wrapper’s been taken off and a lot of me’s still on it.

I know I can make it right here, I just sometimes don’t want to. Like if I do, then it will somehow make Texas disappear. Like in Back to The Future when Marty’s brother starts fading from the photo because his Mom wants to fuck her own son instead of Crispen Glover. I know it doesn’t make any sense at all.

Sorry to continue with the percentages and baking mixed metaphors, but it’s like my life’s a pie graph and I can’t get all the slices to fit in at the same time. When I shove in the “fantastic boyfriend/beautiful house/best country in the world” slices, out pop the “feeling at home/nephew asking me ‘why you so gorgeous?’/best friends in my pajamas all day with the velveeta and good cable” slices. I think I’m starting to come out of the horrible depressed fatal system error feedback loop I was stuck in a year ago when ever I tried to asses this predicament. I only cry every other day and for less than five minutes at a time. Mostly.

In other new, I’ve committed myself to a life of wealth so that the distance will close. The pie pieces will fit like a perfectly completed Trivial Pursuits game piece and I will fly to Texas whenever I need to eat queso and laugh like only a native can.


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