So, at around four in the morning tomorrow, I am going to go to the airport and start my journey home. I’m home for three weeks before getting back to the grindstone that is my MSc in Applied Linguistics. But in the meantime, I get to snuggle with my kitty, pet my puppy, sleep in my own bed, have conversations with people that are not dependent on the internet and… do laundry.
Yes, I have a washing machine where I live. Yes, it does, technically, clean my clothes. But it does not clean them well. I am fine with having to hang dry things, though there is something to be said for pulling a blanket warm out of the dryer. I just don’t like it when those little bits of fuzz don’t get cleaned off my clothes. I feel like a scruffy, semi-aware writer when things don’t get cleaned properly. It’s one of those things that ticks at the back of my brain.
Also, my washing machine recently decided to start leaking, so there’s that.
In any case, I’m very excited for laundry. Far more than most normal people would be, but I’ve never claimed to be normal.
I have my taxi prepared. I have the last part of the semester to finish today (yay syntax?) and a plan to order pizza for dinner, since my fridge is completely empty and my pantry has only oats for oatmeal.
I’m ready to be home. I can write anywhere. Bloom where I’m planted. I’m even happy where I am. There’s just something about going home, though, that makes everything better.
Home for the holidays? Can’t be beat.