The time has finally come, kids. That's right. Mama Holly is moving away from home! Wah wah woo! At the beginning of next month I will have finally joined the ranks of Hemmingway, Da Vinci, even Sartre: I'll be living on my own. The perfect combination of fate, timing, and luck have created circumstances under which I will have a little space of my own. Ahhhh.....

As some of you know, for a while now I've been staying at my mom's house, sharing space with not only with her, but with my sister, my 3 year-old niece, and a dog. And two cats. And a rabbit. And some fish (even though they don't take up much space, and the amount of sassing stays pretty much at a minimum). Point being, I don't have a lot of personal space. Almost none actually. For example, I've actually spent the past five months or so sleeping on a twin matress underneath my niece's bunkbed. [insert Sideshow Bob noise of disgust here] So when the opportunity came up for me to move in with my best friend (and back-up husband, tee-hee) Codey, I jumped on it like bull on a heffer in heat. But with a little more grace. And a lot less mooing.

Anyway . . .

Having the chance to mull all this over for a while, I've come to recognize one benefit of getting my shit together and out of the homestead. Probably the most important benefit. It's a little thing called practice space, kids. Gone will be the days of sitting in my hotter-than-hell garage, trying to keep the volume of my voice down as not to wake the sleeping mater/sister/kiddo, a grimy film of sweat soaking my shirt while my head is haloed in a haze of cigarrette smoke, all this effort only for me to emerge stinky and hot and bitchy an hour later feeling no better about my music than when I went in. But soon . . . Soon I will have an air-conditioned room with a door and decent acoustics in an apartment where the only other person is one of my biggest fans and is at work most of the hours that I'm awake. I feel a period of intense creativity and writing frenzy is almost upon me. I can't friggin' wait.

So, to sum up: Twin matresses suck. Waking up in the morning and stumbling to the bathroom without stepping on a cat, or a dog, or toddler floor-crumbs, or some friggin' toy that makes some terribly annoying noise will be awesome. I will enjoy sleeping topless without shame again.

Oh, man. I gotta start keeping an eye on the toilet paper supply from now on.

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