I like it here in Oregon. The weather is nice, the scenery is beautiful and the people are liberal. Since I’ve been here I’ve gone rafting on the river, watched some taiko drummers do their thing, visited a cool lighthouse, froze my feet off in the Pacific Ocean, went to a giant pumpkin patch, met this owl, got lost in a corn maze and witnessed a man birthing a bicycle. About three months or so in, and already the good times have begun to stack up.

Of course, the move hasn’t been all flowers and lollipops – parts of it have been hard. Being away from friends, family, and the lady friend all come to mind. Trying to figure out exactly how I’m going to go about finishing school, and considering where I’ll want to live once I’m done. Finding a job that pays enough for me to afford bills. Sleeping on a couch for an extended period of time. There is one thing, though, that I’d like to explore more in depth.

When people ask me where I’m from in Texas I tell them Houston. In reality I lived just South of Houston in the small city of Manvel, but if I told people that I’d get blank stares and I’d end up having to tell them what large city I was close to anyway. Although getting to Houston was a short car ride away, I was basically in the country. We lived on about an acre and a half of land where restrictions were minimal. We had regular bonfires, loud barbecues, and set off fireworks whenever we felt like it. Long story short, we played it loud.

Sometimes late at night the urge to urinate would build, but the bathroom would be occupied. In this semi-frequently occurring situation I would simply step outside and relieve myself anywhere I damn well pleased in the yard. We were so far back from the road (which was rarely traversed at night) it wasn’t even all that uncommon for me to let it rip off the front porch into the grass. Life. Was. Beautiful.

Now I live in an apartment complex. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice apartment complex and our neighbors all seem like reasonable people. I feel safe here, to the point that I frequently forgo locking the door when I leave. However I have serious doubts that my kindly neighbors would think very highly of me if I stepped out on my second story porch and wee weed off it at 2 in the morning. Hell, if it was much earlier there’s a chance I might even hit someone, which would be hilarious but would surely be grounds for revoking my right to live here.

Sometimes it’s the little things that end up mattering the most.