Home is where the heart is... and where the next chapter lies.

When you arrive home from an epic journey everyone immediately wants to know one thing:
How are you doing?
It's the number one inquiry on everybody's list. I've been analyzing the usage of this question throughout my arrivals back to New York and I've noticed major similarities in the inquiry. When most people ask, their tones tend to resemble the way people apologize for a death.
I'm so sorry
It must suck to be home
How are you holding up? 
You must be miserable
People expect distress, depression, and debbie-downers. They look for the drawn face, vacant eyes, and melancholy Facebook statuses. The adventuring has ceased and home is Purgatory... or so they seem to think. 

Well, without further ado, I grant you my well being, my thoughts, my feelings, and my response to the age-old question... 
How are you doing?

Since I've gotten home, I must admit, I've been a bit lazier than I expected to be, especially after being a CocoBaby. I pictured myself coming back and spiffing up the house... dusting, cleaning, ironing. I babbled about unpacking, designing my upcoming tattoo, and writing this post. Alas, it has taken me a bit to burn the fire under my bum. 

But brace yourself... buckle your seat belt because I'm back and in full throttle baby.

I came back to NY to find arms wide open, ready for my return. Naturally I miss my loves back in Europe, my CocoMama-Girls-Ladies-n'LovesofmyLife, mi media naranja and Brazilian lover Heloisa, the most-glorious-English-bad-influences of Serena Ray Ford, and that boy- you know, the one from the last post- my Portuguese man candy and long-distance lover. 

Luckily, though, I have the cream of the crop here at home, people that have seen every shade I shimmer in: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Between my mother and 'BFF', I've got a barrel-fulla love. All cliches put aside, they are worth a gaggle of gals, a herd of homies, and five-dozen friends. They, alone, are more than anyone can ask for in one lifetime. 

In the past, the return home felt like a dagger to my spirit. I remember mourning the death of my study-abroad in the land down under. Working 40 hours a week salting McyDs fries, I soaked my sorrows in the dark, crying on the couch to Real Housewives reruns, fighting off fun. But times have changed for the chapters continue to unfold. I look back at the 22 years and 9 months I've completed in this game called life, and I raise a glass to the fact that I feel accomplished. I'm well on my way on my quest towards world domination. 

In a few days, my lease begins on an apartment in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn with a girl I spent Thanksgiving with by dressing up as Pilgrims and Indians; A girl I'd ask our teachers permission to cut class with by saying it was Weaving Day and we had to go outside to weave blades of grass; A girl I'd collect Snapple wrappers and declare songs of the day with. In a land of stone and stoops, I will build my next home, brewing beer in the living room and hula hooping our hearts out. 

It's time to live in the infamous 'concrete jungle where dreams are made... oh.' The city so many people drop their jaws over. August 26th, I begin my masters in teaching English as a second language so I can dive back into the world through the lens of linguistics. 

So how am I doing?

... My freckles are congregating in the sunshine and my smile is extended. To sum it up, I'm pretty damn happy. 

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