"Flyover Country is so boring."
So boring.
Sobering
When
you're boring.
An ESPN pundit mocks Indianapolis because of its produce selection.
"Where's the organic starfruit?"
So boring.
An actress friend, an LA transplant, laments a Cincinnati bar's 2am closing time.
"They should close when the sun breaks through the dark—to clean and prep for the next round."
Sobering.
Coast Dwellers.
They
love it.
They love
it.
Days spent chasing the Latest Latest Latest Shiny Idol.
Nights spent eating out and drinking out and dancing out.
Floating from "happening" to "happening".
Always
on.
Always
being.
Someone.
Else.
Musicvoicesthelatestmartinigropingmusicvoicesthelamestmartinifucking.
Distractions.
At home, in a tiny overpriced studio walk-up, they sit in their underwear.
Stare out the one window with a half-decent view.
Scarf cold lo-mein.
Shovel warm Ben & Jerry's.
Self-satisfied.
Self-loathed.
So boring.
Sobering.
Alone.
Meanwhile, life in Flyover Country continues.
Still haven't tried to find a place that sells organic starfruit.
That favorite burger joint closes well before the sun breaks through the dark.
Days spent forgetting to chase the latest latest latest...whatever.
Nights spent eating out occasionally and drinking out rarely and dancing out only at weddings.
Never floating, but walking.
Calmly.
Wherever I am.
Always.
So boring.
Sobering.
Alone.
Me.
