My first day back in Portland. It is 35 degrees outside and the house is in disarray. We hosted a Reggae Xmas party days before leaving for Santa Cruz. The living room is still emptied of furniture and oversized speakers loom silently in the corner. Agh. I am struggling a bit. Santa Cruz was warm. It was easy. I could blast the heat or eat the whole avocado without hesitation. I could expect a balanced delicious meal to be set before me at 6:30. I could sleep knowing my Dad was just upstairs and would protect me from all harm. But here..., in Portland,... I am the adult. I am the one who pays the heating bill and cooks and assures the chickens and Bello and even my younger housemates, that we are safe from harm. I am responsible for cleaning the house and organizing my studio and applying for health insurance and securing a home loan and answering calls and emails and designing and sculpting and applying for that waitress job to make ends meet. I welcome the weight. I don't want to stay a child and rely on others but right now it just doesn't feel very good. I don't feel very good. I want to stay in bed with Bello, tuck my head under the covers and wake up to a new year and a new mood.

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