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.