When I was ten I moved away from my favourite place in the world, my home. I don't just mean I moved a couple blocks away, no, I moved half way across the country. It killed me, it is still killing me, slowly and painfully. I moved from Calgary to a small island, called P.E.I It's not that the island is a bad place or anything, it is just the fact that I didn't grow up here, and it's not my real home. I'm sure I would love it here if I had grown up here, but one problem, I didn't and I have to deal with it until I have the chance to go back.
My family bought a hotel here, which, at first I thought would be fun, but it's really not. I don't know why I dislike it so much but I do. I guess my parents kind of clued into that, and two night ago, on my way back from the band trip, my mom told me we were moving. At first I was confused, but then she said that it was only a couple minutes away from the hotel, but it's actually a house. We will still own the hotel, just not live in it. The best part is, it is right beside my friends Sarahs house. So that means we will get to hangout a lot more. Her and I had a huge fight at the beginning of the year, and it was over with a while ago, but we never started hanging out again after that, and we both agreed this would probably be a good thing for the both of us, and now maybe we can be like we used to be.
It's a small house, but this way I can actually decorate my room the way I want to, which makes me extremely happy!
The house is no Calgary, but it is going to have to do for a few more years, until I can go back.
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