Transition part 4 (There's a Woset in my Closet)

I love that as the day slides into evening, I can stare out my large living room window, and watch the sky react to the coming darkness: with vibrant, bold sweeping colours, the clouds become chameleons and change as rapidly as the moments pass.  The sun slips down behind the temporarily-silhouetted tips of parliament's peace tower, in a golden, blazing hope-inspiring farewell.  And then I watch as the clouds retreat to cool, peaceful blues and sleepy-time purple.  I also love to listen to the cacophony of pounding rain and snapping thunder while lightening flashes in the sky, as though God is frantically trying to capture photographs of the feuds taking place within the deep heavy clouds. I feel small and safe and awed and warm and young, as I sit on the edge of my seat, or bolt to the window, and press my face against the glass as my eyes dart around the sky trying to catch the next surprise.

And I can't even describe how much I love being able to invite people over to my home - or how much I love even just all the details of making it a home.  I love that each room is becoming unique, and that when Amber and I finally have time/money to finish what we've planned, our personalities will be expressed through our decorations.  I love the space that we have.  I love that I can leave dishes and food in the kitchen.  I love that I can leave my towel and shampoo and anything else I desire (to a point) in the washroom.  I love that my work space, living space, sleeping space and eating space are not all in the same room.

And I'm trying to love the quirks.  For instance, the rather large quantity of pigeon droppings on the balcony and windows.  Not to mention the hurricane that's almost constantly going on inside of the apartment.  I feel like I'm locking some sort of magical explosion or three headed dog inside each time I stand outside of the door, either pulling with everything inside me to close it, or pushing with all my weight against the wind, so as not to slam the door.  You have to lift the drawers to open them, and you can't open one of the vanity doors in our washroom, oh, and you can't completely close the window in our awesome room.  We've added a few quirks of our own.  Almost everything we own is named Zellers, with the exception of our futon who is named "Forsaking Zellers," and our cleaning gloves, which are named bed bug and cockroach, two things of which we are terrified. Today, Amber and I discovered that we actually dont live on the 15th floor. The missing 13th floor is really not a myth! How hilarious is that? Very. I think.  But maybe I'm just weird.  In which case, you should try laughing at these kinds of things too.  It makes life much more entertaining!

What kind of first apartment would this be if everything was perfect? Imperfection is what leads to personality.  And how boring would life be without personalities?  So our place isn't perfect.   But what kind of strange first apartment is? Imperfections lead to great personalities, and how boring would life be without those?