So, six months ago I was pretty much moved into LAboy’s house (our house); my parents were about to leave; I was about to be on my own for The First Time Ever. Scary shit. It was a hugely, supremely rough transition; now we’re in a holding pattern. I’m not sure which is worse. I’m waiting to hear back if I’ll ever get an agent for my book; we’re waiting to move closer to town (and away from future MIL); waiting to hear about the MFA program.
Waiting, waiting, waiting. For everything. I make the same drive every day, look at the same cows every day. I hug my pupper every day. I hug my LAboy every day. Those are the best parts, the hugs, the excited jumping on me (dog), the bright smile (LAboy), knowing that I’m home.
It’s weird, being home. Knowing that I’m really home; that NY isn’t home anymore, but LA is. I moved halfway across the country.