Missing Home

I'm lucky. My parents aren't bankrupt, or abusive, or divorced, or dead. The house I live in has a back garden, space to park a couple of cars, and central heating. I'm healthy, mentally and physically, as is my family. I can read. I have qualifications, opportunities. I have the wherewithal to take a shower every day and watch the Simpsons every night and eat three times a day. We go on holiday once a year. I have friends, who keep me going through the tiny, insignificant glitches in my otherwise technically perfect life I undoubtedly blow way out of proportion because I have nothing else with which to fill my empty existence. It's so frustrating; I annoy even myself, with my own abject selfishness and negativity and vanity and ability to find something in every situation to be dissatisfied with.

God. I miss you all so fucking much. Why did we all have to change? If I hadn't moved away, would things have turned out differently? If I could claim to be any good at all at utilising the internet to actually keep up with people, would I still be able to say I feel like any of you want me around? I'd do anything to go back to when I was still with you, even though I hated the school, because at the end of the day, it didn't matter - I had the best friends in the world and I didn't even know it yet. I still do. Like I said, I'm unbelievably lucky. I hope I've learned to give my new friends the appreciation and affection they deserve through regretting not giving enough of either to you guys back home. 

If the opportunity to lose my mind and live forevermore in my own utopian, imaginary dreamworld ever comes my way, I hope you'll forgive me for leaving you. I need you all too badly.