Nowhere…Anywhere…Everywhere but Somewhere

Last year at this time, I was at the Feira do Rio Antigo, by myself, wandering through the stalls, paying for what I felt like, nicking what I didn’t (they expect it.  Right?).  I was hot, and the tourists were swarming like maggots on shit, and my parents were fighting (again).  I didn’t even know I was happy, but I was.  Fuck.

Did you know the Welsh word for “nowhere” is the same as the word for “anywhere”?  Unman.  Anywhere in Wales is nowhere at all.  And where I’m stuck is more nowhere than anywhere else.  I have to go to the library for dialup, when old Mother Jones can be bothered to open the book shack. 

Dial.  Up.  Yeah.

I asked my grandparents for a smart phone for my birthday, and they got me one of those translucent phones that seemed cool when you were 5 and had just graduated from plastic chew toys


It’s only 3 years.  Three years, and I’m officially grown up, and I can leave, go back home, or anywhere, really.

Shit.  I’m stuck here for 3 years.