What makes a home. A question that has pledged us for generations. Is it the memories that are made inside? The building that is built to house a family? Or is it the butt load of crap put in it? Because if it is the latter then this is a home times like five. When did we get all this stuff? WHEN!? When we have our own place it will be great, but we have roommates... it's so overwhelming really.
So far we have counted one broken lamp and one broken snow globe my sister Jennifer gave me. I have always cherished it and cried so hard when I found it broken. The music piece and the inside of the globe are fine, but the glass and glitter are dead (along with the water of course).
Things are coming along slowly, but I think it's meant to be slowly.
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