I love being home; I don't buy into the fetishism of escapism, where traveling hurts my body and tiny bottles of water are $14.
I love being productive, getting shit done rather than running away from it. I love knowing my friends are just a call away if I want to meet, and I love how most of them have theater shows going on near nightly if I want to go watch.
I love how whom I should have gotten rid of 10 years ago, will come see me whenever I ask (if he picks up his phone, which he rarely does). I love my goddamn gigantic African Sulcata tortoise that has fucked my life and lives in my living room.
I love the local dive bars, filled with old men who should have their car keys taken away. I love knowing exactly where to park. And I love knowing which bartenders make the best drinks.
It's nice. It’s nice romanticizing your life into the vacation you’ve always wanted to take, so there’s no need to go anywhere but here.
Tracy Dubin is an international science and humanities university lecturer, essayist, and poet. She’s a neuroscience researcher with numerous postgraduate certifications from the Medical University of South Carolina, holds an English MA from the University of California at Irvine, and has a Gerontology BS and English (Emphasis in Creative Writing) BA from the University of Southern California. Read her within the Harvard Gazette, Hobart, and Addiction Neuroscience. She lives in Los Angeles with her giant African Sulcata tortoise, Fredrick Bartholomew, who resides in her (renovated-for-reptiles) living room. She’s a complicated Two-Spirit, androgynously fluid; her written word understands.
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