I smell my house.

Well, here I am back home. At my house. In my living room. On my couch. Looking at a giant wardrobe thing in the corner, wondering where the heck it came from. And marveling at how different the hallway looks since Mom took the corkboard off the walls. It's pretty late to be writing a blog post, but inspiration struck me, so duty calls. I just got home from seeing Paranormal Activity 2. Holy. Cow. It was intense. But that's not really what this post is about...

I smell my house. You know how when you live somewhere, you don't really know what it smells like because you're there all the time? That's always how it's been with my house. I never really notice that it has a smell. Unless I've been gone for awhile and then I come back. And I don't know why, but smelling my house always makes me really happy. Because it's rare when it happens, and it's always a surprise. I haven't smelled this smell in years, because I've been so used to it. When we would go on a vacation for a week, I would test it out and see if I could smell my house, but usually even then, it didn't smell like anything. Only if I was gone for a really long time was I able to smell it. And then it would only last for a little while, until I got used to it again.

It's a familar smell, but it's more than that. It's like a feeling. When I smell my house smell, I am reminded that no matter how far away I've gone, this is where I belong. This is the smell that becomes so familiar to me that I forget that I'm smelling it at all. And soon enough, it'll fade and I'll forget the smell again.

But until then, I'm cool with sitting here breathing like a maniac, trying to savor the smell as long as I can.
Gosh, I'm a freak. A freak who is happy to be home.