Country Road
It's 9:17 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. Woodstock, Connecticut. United States of America. Planet Earth. I'm in the living room observing mother and stepfather watching Rush Hour 2.
I think to myself...FUCK.MY.LIFE.
Every night is the same thing, the same routine, the same people, the same cheesy television and mindless prattle that has dictated my life for years and years. I once had the thought that going home for the summer was a welcome idea.
I HATE being home.
Why do you have to laugh at stupid jokes that a 6th grader would laugh at and look to me expecting me to smile or laugh or give a reaction other than a stern eye and furrowed brow?
Physical therapy, car in the shop, re-training at work for the third time to become something I already am...this is the last thing I want.
I can't even run. I want to more than anything. I want to run down Roseland Park Road and experience the solitude and serenity my town has to offer. It's a beautiful place, really...the appearance of my home makes me happy. It's the people I just can't take. I'm so limited here.
Northeastern Connecticut is where people go to die. There's so many elderly and so many making it by the skin of their teeth. No wonder people feel tied down and rotten and just mull about their daily routines, like watching mindless television.
I honestly don't care that Billy Bob Thornton wrote and starred in Sling Blade and that you can talk in an accent like him, and you laugh at Chris Rock and Jackie Chan? Please.
I distract myself with work (bad option) and thinking about my future home come August, and how hopefully this is my last summer where I have to come home.
I swear I'll have an apartment or house with the forward thinkers I've surrounded myself with, and my trips home will be limited to holidays. This has to happen...I'm suffocating as it is, and I've barely been back a week. I recall that I had approximately one day at home between my California spring break and going back to school. By the end of that day, I was ready to leave.
Sorry parents, I love you, but it pains me to look into the worn down faces of the people I check out and see a long line of personal tragedies, failures, and broken dreams in each one. People who have given up, and it shows. A summer wasting...
I'm making it, and not making it here.
I think to myself...FUCK.MY.LIFE.
Every night is the same thing, the same routine, the same people, the same cheesy television and mindless prattle that has dictated my life for years and years. I once had the thought that going home for the summer was a welcome idea.
I HATE being home.
Why do you have to laugh at stupid jokes that a 6th grader would laugh at and look to me expecting me to smile or laugh or give a reaction other than a stern eye and furrowed brow?
Physical therapy, car in the shop, re-training at work for the third time to become something I already am...this is the last thing I want.
I can't even run. I want to more than anything. I want to run down Roseland Park Road and experience the solitude and serenity my town has to offer. It's a beautiful place, really...the appearance of my home makes me happy. It's the people I just can't take. I'm so limited here.
Northeastern Connecticut is where people go to die. There's so many elderly and so many making it by the skin of their teeth. No wonder people feel tied down and rotten and just mull about their daily routines, like watching mindless television.
I honestly don't care that Billy Bob Thornton wrote and starred in Sling Blade and that you can talk in an accent like him, and you laugh at Chris Rock and Jackie Chan? Please.
I distract myself with work (bad option) and thinking about my future home come August, and how hopefully this is my last summer where I have to come home.
I swear I'll have an apartment or house with the forward thinkers I've surrounded myself with, and my trips home will be limited to holidays. This has to happen...I'm suffocating as it is, and I've barely been back a week. I recall that I had approximately one day at home between my California spring break and going back to school. By the end of that day, I was ready to leave.
Sorry parents, I love you, but it pains me to look into the worn down faces of the people I check out and see a long line of personal tragedies, failures, and broken dreams in each one. People who have given up, and it shows. A summer wasting...
I'm making it, and not making it here.