Getting off at South Station, for the first time I felt physically nauseous at the sight of Boston. Not immediately, but only after walking into the main hall, hearing sounds of music, and seeing an older couple playing on violins, all smiles. Something about it felt so artificial, so… inhuman. And looking at the faces, at the pale white fat faces that exude intellectual superiority among with a faux-personality manifested in pink hair died half-way.
Yesterday I met with a couple in a pizza shop. He is a model, she is a painkiller-pill-popping tatooed Asian bartender writer. Neither stuck me as exactly high-class intelligentsia. But they felt real. Here, between cautious sideways glances laden with introspection, I am finding it difficult not to want to smack people that I am walking by.
Perhaps this was all brought on by a fascinating weekend with family. Perhaps by personal frustration that life stagnates in Boston. Perhaps insecurity manifesting in forced self-aggrandizement, but, whatever the reason, Boston is pissing me off.
Anyway, there are far more interesting subjects to think about than this crap. Moving right along.