Cozy is getting home to find your folks have made up the couch like a bed so you can climb in it the second you get your shoes off.
Happiness is being awakened in time to have a home-cooked dinner with your folks.
Frustration is choking down the newest mountain of evening psychotropics in the hopes that this cocktail will finally—FINALLY—be the magic bullet that promotes social confidence and friendly comfort and eliminates embarrassing side effects like wiggling and grunting and face touching and hair swirling and eye rolling and knee shaking and foot tapping and diminished motor skills in my hands and fingers and time-sucking distractibility with Facebook or rubber bands or the shoes I'm wearing or how many 5 Hour Energies or Diet Mountain Dews I can nurse before lunch.
But there is a mighty cloud of joy amid all that complicated emotional mess: the unbridled happiness I get from slurping up a giant chocolate malt my dad made for me (with extra malt because we're not savages) and enjoying it along with my parents as we discuss the news of the day interspersed with attempts to fix my mom's perpetually broken iPad even though none of us has even a modicum of a clue what we're doing. It's a small gesture of love and goodwill for what I often feel is an irreparably broken man.
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