There’s this thing that happens whenever anyone moves to a new place.  You ease into it.  You slowly start to make it your own.  I’m not simply talking about unpacking your boxes, putting up your decorations or arranging your furniture to achieve maximum living space configuration.  I refer instead to when that feeling sweeps over you that you really KNOW your dwelling and the city you’re in.  If you had the weirdest hankering for an Iced Almond Milk Tea with Boba at the bottom at say 11:00 in the evening, you’d know exactly where to get it.  Basically, it’s that moment when your new place feels like home.

That didn’t happen with me.

I’ve never really lived in Long Beach, California.  Sure, my mom lives here and I’ve certainly spent a lot of time hanging out in Long Beach and have had several friends that live here; but as for myself?  Nope.  Despite all that, it already feels like home.  It feels like a city I could have grown up in.  One with a seemingly endless supply of venues and activities I could participate in.  Not to mention all the many, many, MANY gay establishments I could frequent.  How awesome would these have been to have when I was a Gay Tween?:

And that’s just naming a fraction of what’s out there.

There was no ramping up of that home feeling.  It happened the second I walked through my new apartment’s doors and took it all in.  Truth be told, I was little worried about how comfortable I instantly felt and in typical Xander form, I over-analyzed this great feeling.  As of 2 AM last night when my unnecessarily paranoid delusions aggravated my already relentless insomnia, I gave it up.  I gave up trying to find fault with how wonderful this all felt.  I’m rolling it with it and not looking back.

I may have never really lived here, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t come home.

Take it away Ms. Ross:

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