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Another Wednesday, another blog post. I don't know where I'm going to go, so hold on and lets see what happens. 

I came home for winter break. It's nice to see family even though half of the day is spent sitting around, waiting for someone to come home from school. All I do right now is read and try to find some reason to get out of bed. Between the emotional pointlessness of it all and the boredom of Auburn Washington, I truly struggle to find the reason half of the days. Usually when I visit I sleep downstairs on the couch with my dad. Don't ask why he sleeps down there, it's simply the way our household works. However the difference between the "usually" and the "now" is that my younger brother isn't here right now; the one in college, not the one in middle school. This means I get to sleep in my childhood bed until my college brother comes home and reclaims what he originally claimed when I went off to college.

A few notes about my childhood room: The playboy is still hidden underneath my mattress. When I was in high school I asked for a playboy with just the articles for secret santa as a joke. My secret santa didn't understand this and just assumed I was like every other horny freshman in the world, asking for a playboy. Beneath the bunk of my bunkbed (yes, I have a bunkbed) there is a small smiley faced sharpie drawing that I made once in childhood. I have no memory when this came about, but it haunted my sight every time I lay my head down for sleep. Underneath my desk I have written "Take what you can, give nothing back" which is a quote from Pirates of the Caribbean. Ignoring my HUGE PotC phase, I think the reasoning for this is the amount of anger my dad felt that no matter where we went or how many times we visited Disneyland, we could never find this phrase on the back of any T-Shirt. 

I'm sure I could go on about the holes in the wall left by posters of plays I so wanted to be in, or of the single thing that remained in the room after my brother took over: A picture of Bill Murray grinning, painted by one of my friends from art high school. But, who wants to hear about my own personal nostalgia. To anyone else this is just another teenage boy's room, vacant of class or culture but filled to the brim with memories they could drunkenly recite to you any day of the week. Honestly, there's no reason for me to return home aside from the fact that my mother is a much better cook than my grandmother (who is the person I normally live with). There's no real reason I return home every chance I get, to sleep uncomfortably in a bed that isn't mine in a room that has become strange to me. But then you've never seen the look on my mom's face when I step through that doorway. She would be the first to embrace me if it weren't for my dog going fucking crazy trying to deal with the fact that someone she thought was dead forever has once again come home.

I'm sure this is all something you feel, none of this has been anything I needed to post, but I'm dealing with a lot right now, and I meant it when I said I struggle to find a reason to get out of bed. Maybe this is my reason. Maybe my reason is family and my dog and my hunger for real homemade food. Maybe it's just the act of finding another memory tucked away under a bookshelf. I don't know. I may not feel complete, but when I'm home I certainly feel content, and that's a hell of a lot better than how I normally feel these days. I'm fine, don't worry, probably just being dramatic, but the wood slats keeping the upper bunk mattress from falling on me feel more like a prison than a structural concept, so I'm going to continue rambling until I go back to school next month.

See you a week from today with another update that you may not read but you can bet your ass I'll write.  Gabye!

Dylan Zucati