Timestamp: Daytona

I took my bike out the other night, for the first time since I fucked up my foot so bad.  I was gonna just quietly sit at the coffee shop, but my friend was bartending, and I’ve missed her.  My leg is now an interesting morass of blood, bruising and swelling.


I haven’t talked much about Daytona.  It’s a fucking weird place, you know?

I hate it here.  I hate it way down deep in my bones, but it’s not its fault, really.  It’s beautiful, in a lot of ways — living on a barrier island, with the Atlantic washing in through the windows.

Happiness is not tied to geography and I know this.  Moving doesn’t make it better.  But unhappiness is, sometimes, and I can never be happy here.

Soon I will move across the country yet again.  I won’t be happy there, either, but I will be, for a little while.  That means something, in a meaningless way.

I’m clearly very profound, at fuck-o-clock on a Friday morning.

This asshole is real cute, though.  If nothing else.

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