I fight it. God knows I fight it, but there are days when I can’t escape the depression—the Utah depression. Days when it all just turns into paralysis and dreams of other places and other times.
On those days, it isn’t enough to say that I miss Queens. It’s more like I’m mostly still living there.
Certainly I’m not really living in Utah right now. I don’t know if I ever will. If I’m here until I’m 85, on my death bed I’ll be talking about when my temporary residence in the godforsaken wilderness of Utah will draw to a close.
— § —
Once, a million years ago, my parents almost moved to the bay area in California.
It’s silly and pointless to talk about, but there is still a teenage boy in me that is flailing about in a rage trying to make this happen retrospectively.
Why did my parents and extended family have to end up living in Utah, of all places?
— § —
I know. Grow up. Make the best of it. It’s not that bad. It’s all PTSD or something.
— § —
Fucking Utah.