“Two hours? Why’d they build this ghost town so far away?”
“Because they discovered gold right over there.”
“It’s because they’re stupid, that’s why. That’s why everybody does everything.”

I have a problem. Well, I have lots of problems. I can never keep my desk organized. Right now it’s an explosion of papers and tylenol cold pills. And lots of other pills. All of them legal though and for medical purposes only. My other problem is that I think everything is a problem. Maybe it’s not a problem. Maybe it’s how you look at it.

One person’s problem is another person’s good time.

Also if your problem can be solved with money then it isn’t a real problem.

Unless you’re homeless. Then it might be a problem.

My constant problem is that I always fall for people who live on the opposite side of the country.

Or maybe I go out of my way to fall for people who live far away because it’s some messed up defense mechanism to keep me from getting too close, either physically or metaphorically or another-ically.

Either way, it’s a problem.

Are you a plane ride away? I seem find that very attractive in a man.

I always put myself through the same turmoil. I fall, and pretty hard, there’s scraped knees involved. I psych myself up for the trip. I have all of these notions of the fun things we’ll do. But when I picture them I know I’m picturing them in the purest form. “Picture.” That’s a terrible verb. Look at it. It’s literally describing something as…well a picture. That’s one step away from a painting. It’s not a real depiction of anything. And when I picture, there’s soundtracks involved. “They made a statue of us” I hear in my head and I see quick cuts of us, whoever the us is, I realize now that the guy doesn’t even matter (sorry guys) because it’s all about me; me running around the city, laughing, acting dumb and the man I’m with finding that utterly charming; me parading the guy around friends, our arms intertwined, commenting on the wine; in my picture of us, we are literally taking pictures of us. I’m all about visuals and little about the reality.

The reality is that I hate flying because I always get bloated. It’s the dehydration or something. Or maybe the anxiety. I don’t know. But I always feel awful, either cramped or nauseous and very often both.

And it always ends the same way: in pure disappointment. Even if the trip is almost picture perfect there’s that commandment in my head of, “long distance relationships don’t work.”

But this isn’t true. Because no relationships work. By which I mean, unless you’re married/committed in some way and happily right now, every relationship you have been in thus far has not worked.

And I have friends who are in long distance relationships. How do they do it? The odds that you would find someone who would be attracted to you at the same moment that you’re attracted to them are staggering enough. How did you pull that off while being in different cities?

I mean, who really cares about distance anyway. If you’re lucky enough to find someone you like and care about and have fun with, fucking take that and don’t let it go. The whole thing is such a shot in the dark. And if you’re young, you can get away with the travel.

After all, it’s just life. No need to agonize over every single thing.

I’ve yet to find someone worth the trip, because they don’t think I’m worth the trip either. That’s the trick of it; it has to go both ways.

City Song — P. Everett McPartland


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