Homebody

        My friends hang out after school because they don't want to go home. I'm the one rushing out the door because home, sweet home!  I'm suddenly happier when I'm away from those 2,000 other students, with a book in my hand, walking fast.  I hit a certain house and sigh.  This is the home stretch.  And then I'm in my driveway, and I start moving slowly again, because I'm home.
        My home has my meowing cats and places to take naps when I shouldn't and my family.  My house is smaller than any of my friends' houses.  And it's messy, which my parents apologize profusely for when friends come over.  But it's my house, and it makes me feel calmer.  I don't dread being around my family.  I don't dread doing chores.  I can just come home and relax.  (And then stress out about homework, which makes me wonder why we don't call it "housework", because it's cold and impersonal and suuuuuucks.)
        Perhaps it's because I'm a creature of habit.  I act like the space is sacred, so it becomes sacred.  I come home and I shed my backpack immediately, because it's not a part of home.  I change my clothes and change my hair because I didn't dress up for home (which occasionally blows up in my face).  When I have a friend over, suddenly the spaces seem smaller and the messes seem bigger because there's not supposed to be another body here.
        Perhaps it's because I'm an introvert.  I feel dumb saying it; it feels like a well-worn excuse for being awkward.  But I don't like huge crowds.  Walking through the halls is sorta hellish.  I don't like talking -- I'd rather listen (in a big old group of my friends, everyone would have to refrain from yelling).  I'm shy and quiet and it ain't changin'.  Home is my homeboy, my best alone-time friend.

        None of this would be a problem -- I'd just like home a lot -- if the future wasn't flying towards my face at light-speed.  Whereas my friends can't wait to get out on their own, I find myself wanting to stay here.  Wanting to sleep in my old bed, sit on my old couch, and eat food from my old fridge... for the foreseeable future.  RUH-ROH.

        "The process of growing up is different for everyone. Some people take longer to give up their adolescent lives and make the ascent to adult-hood," said the girl afraid of living in her parent's house until she's 40 at 3:26 in the morning because she wanted to feel comforted by the input of an experienced, imaginary homebody reformer.  OH NOES.


        In other news, I've decided to try Poetry Out Loud, Sterling Scholar is still stressful, I have to write a sonnet to win a bet on my pride, and I really, really don't want break to end.  I've been studying up on how to artfully release this stress.