Home Sweet Home

Travelling is not my favorite thing in the world to do.

I'm not a fan of doing it for vacation, or even just day trips. Honestly, I just don't like leaving home terribly much. At least not until I need to.

Whether that be sustenance, doctor's appointments, or making sure my wife and Two can not go stir crazy.

It's not the being somewhere else part that's the issue, not really. It's the going.

I can't stand the getting ready to get ready part, the driving part, the flying part, the time between where you were and where you are part.

I find myself in-between emotions when I have to travel. I am somewhere between crushing depressive loneliness and a docile kind of calm. I feel like the unsettling smile of a Titan on Attack On Titan--dead-eyed, but still somewhere in there.

I like the quiet of it all, the solitude, but that same solitude makes me bored, and starved for interaction.

I miss home terribly when I'm away--I always have been like that.

I remember going to summer camp when I was probably 7 or 8 and I was so homesick that I just threw up and shit myself out of distress. I did that for, like, two days before I was allowed to go home.

I got home and I was right as rain, althought I couldn't shake the feeling that I had disappointed my family for some reason.

Part of me still feels that way, I think--like if I want to leave early, or I'd rather now go, somehow someone is going to be crushed by it, but they just won't say anything because it's a pitious kind of thing.

I miss waking up and having happy feet with Two. I miss waking up to stank-breath good mornings and confused mouths trying to form words.

In the words of The Beach Boys: I wanna go home.