I Call it Home

Why is it that I find myself loving the crummiest places? Why is it that I wish my house were sometimes a pint-sized apartment with low-grade appliances? Why is it that I miss taking down our clothes with my mom down to the laundry room, which has no AC or heat, and smells heavily of old things? Why is it that I love going downtown, even though the air stinks of greasy fast food? Why is it that I wish I were waiting for something? Is it because sometimes we love things dearly that are imperfect, like we crave it?

Perfect things are boring, and flawless. Airbrushed faces, straw legs, pink lips, big blue doe eyes. You see that everywhere. Nothing new.

Wild unkept hair, a girl who's not obsessed with her weight, two different colored eyes, a crooked tooth here and there. Surely imperfect, definetly not in a magazine. But that's the beautiful part of it all. It's real, something simply, and utterly gorgeous all on her own.

I guess it's just those rare moments that are crappy and nowhere near beautiful that I live for. Imperfectings are perfect.

"Dear mother can you hear me whining, it's been three whole weeks since that I have left your home, This sudden fear has left me trembling, 'Cause now it seems that I am out here on my own, And I'm feeling so alone, Pay attention to the cracked streets and the broken homes, Some call it slums some call it nice, I wanna take you through a wasteland I like to call my home, Welcome to paradise."