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I am currently seated in Cafe 1842 with nearly 3/4 of my Christmas shopping and an orange soda complete. There is jazzy Christmas music playing over the thumping music upstairs and coffee cup clinking next door. An unwashed man drank his tea and left after the loud man on his cell phone bustled away, and a girl with a red bandana is sitting beside me writing notes compiled from her head and from a novel on her lap.

My classmates become annoyed with me when I rave about the wonders of Waterloo and the shittiness of London, but I can't help it. It's not that Waterloo is the best, or even a great city, it just feels like my city; it feels like home to me. I've gone 'home' a few times since I moved away and it never felt the same - my parents had rearranged the furniture and, as a result, took away a strip of my childhood. This is my first time back to Waterloo since September. I honestly did not expect to be such a nostalgic. I'm remembering morning walks for coffee in the summertime while working down the street, and late-night Scrabble games over tea, smiles, and hand-fondles. 'Home', for me, covers about a thirty mile radius, centred in the 'burg and to it I've realized I am unashamedly attached. I passed through Stratford with my sister and her sore-toothed friend last night on the way home, and I wanted to jump out of the car just to touch everything again. I may be a ridiculous person. Buh. Now it's back to catching up on blogs news and gossip on cafe courtesy before I grab a Javanilla and buy some more things to wrap with bows and pretty paper.

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lolamatopoeia

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