There’s no place like home.

Nothing like returning to your home after a visit to another’s to knock one down a tick-or-two. The couch was not nearly as comfy, the dishes in the sink and garbage in the can were attracting flies, and there were far too many light switches (resulting in an unnecessary changing-of-bulbs when we couldn’t find the switch to turn on the fixture–but hey, what’re friends for?). And yet, it was home. Well, not for me, but for a friend. And I cannot hate, for I added to the garbage in the can and it’s my own stupidity for not understanding how to properly use a dimmer switch. 

And then I came home to my perfect abode, only to remember that that pan of cheese dip on the counter really oughta be thrown out (I blame the dip for not announcing its presence more clearly. You’re not doing me any favors by not reeking up the joint. Seriously). 

This made me realize that, regardless of how disheveled our hovels might appear, they’re still home to someone.* 


*For an illustration, see the scene in Trainspotting when Mark goes back to visit Tommy after he’s introduced him to heroin. Well, actually, see any scene in Trainspotting.

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