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December 12, 2010
I don't like it here. It's pretty, I suppose. The mountains cut across the sky at an angle that fascinates me, and at night, the lights from Mexico make the land brighter than the sky. But I still don't like it.

I want to go home. Either home. The home with the trees and snow and quiet roads, or home with the pools and paintings and dusty desert trails. It doesn't matter. I just want to go home.

There's so much to do here. I could gain my independence in a place like this. I don't care.