Let Me Come Home

I dream of having my own home at least ten times a day.  I dream of a place to store all of the kitchen supplies I've avoided buying knowing a hoarding roommate will fill the void.  A home to decorate and fill with things I love instead of what was cheapest at Ikea, and a home that feels warm and inviting and smells sweet, but most importantly a place to come home to and actually feel like I'm home.  

It's a subject that consumes my thoughts and has me scouring listings on the Internet for available studios and one bedroom apartments.  Thinking of shelves I'll fill with books and knick-knacks, the smell of cookies that will fill my kitchen, milling around the house finishing up chores listening to music, not worrying who I might wake up.  This is what I dream of.