You fall in love with the places that you’re from. But then you grow older, and maybe you spend some time in a place that you don’t like. For all I know, you’re there right now.
If you were, you wouldn’t tell anybody, because that’s not hip; if you run down where you live, then you’re a dick. But at the same time, you’re not gonna love every place you live, and you’re dishonest—which is worse than being a dick—if you say, “Oh, yeah, I love every place I’ve fucking lived.” No, you don’t.
Sometimes you go someplace, and you feel that the air and the trees and the people and the streets, they’re all coming up against you, they’re all sort of like snakes, winding themselves around your ankles, trying to keep you in a place that’s neither nourishing your spirit nor feeding your heart.
And you think to yourself, “I have to get out of here,” and every time you think that, it’s like the snakes coil themselves a little tighter around your ankle. And you think, “Jesus Christ, I need a drink. I have to have a drink. I have to get out of this marriage. I can’t stand this anymore.”
And then the other person says, “You know you’re saying that shit out loud?”