go home

I used to hate driving to work everyday when I was a driver at the restaurant. On the mornings when I had pulled an all nighter, I would close my eyes merging from highway 50 to interstate 5 just to get my heart racing. I had impeccable timing, not once did I jerk the wheel because my precision was always on point. I memorized my new city within weeks when I first moved to California. On lonely fall afternoons I asked strangers for directions to places I knew just to spark conversations. I always wished they’d ask me where I was from, though I hated in Las Vegas, with pride I’d say I grew up in Vegas.

Two months into my transplant city, I have general knowledge as to where I live. There aren’t street signs or names anywhere. People just seem to know where they are going. Now days when I’m walking along my new territory, I avoid eye contact with people. I don’t want to be looked at, I don’t want to be stared at. I don’t give a shit about anyone’s opinion on my short hair, western clothing, or coarse language I insist on using everyday. I just don’t give a shit.