Sometimes I really hate being me. Sometimes I really hate having to deal with the life that happens to me. What the hell can I say that will express this emotion I'm swamped with? I like myself just fine, thanks. I like my husband, I like my pets, I like my computer, I like lots and lots of things. I just totally hate having to live in Nashville, and having to admit I live here, and smiling, and saying it's not so bad. I grit my teeth when I think of how many years I've had to make do with no social life to speak of, and no local friends, and no interesting places to hang out. I loathe having to make the best of things. I despise being in a position where I can't choose where to live. Despise seems a bit mild. I am filled with black, inchoate rage and the urge to scream at the top of my lungs and rend into tiny pieces the next person that attempts to console me.
I am ungrateful and bad-tempered about this. I don't WANT to say it's okay any more. It's NOT okay with me if we freaking move to freaking Salt Lake City, okay? This is not due to any perceived imperfection of SLC. I just don't want to live there. I want to go HOME.
And as soon as I say that, I realize it sounds stupid and childish. Home, right. Isn't home supposed to be where the heart is, i.e., husband, pets, computer, etc.? Sorry, that's not enough. I'm a demanding sonofagun. I want quality of life, and I want it now after giving it up for seven years. I want city pleasures, sophisticated entertainment, visual stimulation, not this dreary hokum that passes for life in the middle of the boil on the butt of the South. I want San Francisco or New York or London, all of which seem more like home to me than here. I've lived in those cities. I love them with a fierce devotion. I never get tired of them, except when it's fun to get tired of them and go on vacation, and then come back with a renewed appreciation.
Spewing bile this way is so invigorating. I try to keep this crap out of my journal because frankly, I doubt anyone cares to read it. Today's an exception, though, and for no particular reason. Besides, I'm convinced that no one reads my journal because it's all sweetness and light, that people only like the surly, self-pitying cant of journalists who dare to lift the rock of their soul and expose the writhing, voracious worms underneath.
Good lord. I'm sorry, I can't go on. I'm laughing too hard. I'll catch you later. Rant over.