Why Can't I Be Like Peter Pan?

I don't want to go home this summer. I want to stay here in my little private room, with my television that lets me watch whatever I want when I want to watch it. I want to stay with my high speed internet, my mini-fridge of wonderfully cold bottled water and yogurt. I want to stay here, where it takes only five minutes to get to the nearest Wal-Mart. I want to stay here, where groceries are cheaper because there are several grocery stores in this city instead of one. I want to stay here, where I can fix a fast-food craving in less than five minutes.

I don't want to go home. I don't want to leave my little store that I work at, or my little P.O. box. I don't want to go home and forget all about my French. I don't want to have to take down all my pictures and posters and pack everything away in a little over a week.

Whenever I go home, I feel like I'm taking fifty steps back instead of forward in life. And I hate that. The speed limit is slower there, the overall feeling is slower. Time seems to stop there. It just hangs there, not moving. It's stifling.

I don't want to go home. I want an adventure. Home is no adventure. I've had all the adventures I can have in that town.

Why did I read the best book in the world? Peter Pan makes me depressed.