Tomorrow I find out if I’m going to London for a month this summer. So does my sister. I assume that we bring the same “stuff” to the table–wit, charm, eloquence, potential for greatness, etc. The only thing that distinguishes one applicant from another (well besides GPAs but what English major isn’t averaging out at an A-/B+ ?) is a 300 word personal statement. I hope I stated something in those 300 words. But why do you want to go to London, Connelly? “Go,” I’ll say. I just want to go. I don’t think that translates to “leave,” but I’m not sure where and when “stay” fits into the equation.
The bed in my apartment is my favorite place to rest. I’ve tried public library napping–which I would never rule out, but which certainly doesn’t claim the top spot. The futon in my apartment isn’t half bad. My boyfriend’s bed is just that–someone else’s bed. My sister’s bed is too small. My bed at home is “my bed” but I prefer “the bed in my apartment.” What do beds feel like in London? Will I deem one “mine”? Perhaps, the more places I go, the fewer places I’ll want to stay.
Maybe home is a lot smaller than a house or even a room.
Below, Homer on my bed at home. Who wouldn’t want to stay there?