Hello, humans. It’s been a while. And truth be told, it’ll probably be another good while before the next self-indulgent rant. Not that this will fit that description. Shit. Now I’ve probably gone and gotten you all hot and bothered for some dark, sardonic wit.
Sorry to disappoint.
I’ve been doing some thinking (don’t worry, I won’t let it happen again). I think I hate this city. I think I don’t belong here, and I think there aren’t enough redeeming qualities to warrant any affection or devotion to this city. The city of my birth. My proverbial hometown. Perhaps I’ve merely outgrown Miami. But I’m not quite sure when this would have happened. My best guess? I outgrew this city the second the doctor spanked my sexy, amniotic-fluid-covered ass.
You might be saying right now, “Well, Marc. You should move, then. Get out of there if you don’t like the place you’re living in.” And my response is twofold. Fold One: don’t end a sentence in a fuckin preposition, unless you’re looking to get grammar-slapped. And Fold Two: you’re probably maybe sorta absolutely right.
But I have a confession to make. I’m scared to leave. Not out of some immature fear of failure. But because I’m afraid I’ll never stop moving. I’m afraid of ending up a sad, cranky drifter, going from city to city, never finding a place where I feel I belong. Which would mean, of course, that maybe I just don’t belong here at all.
Maybe the problem isn’t the city or the state or the country or the planet. Maybe I’m in the wrong time period. The wrong era. I own a turntable. I write on a typewriter. I hated Transformers. I drink cheap wine. I think modestly dressed women are sexy. I don’t understand this world, or why people do the things they do or think the things they think. Or hurt the people they hurt. And all these ideas I have about love and life and everything worth living for just seem foreign in this place. This world, it seems, is no place for a man willing to give everything to be everything to someone.
And without that? Well, I can’t seem to find much else worth fighting for.
Now it appears I owe myself some sort of punishment, as I’ve just ended a sentence with a preposition. A pox upon me and my home. Wherever that may be.