Living in a small town is suffocating. The walls seem to close in and the constant state of normalcy and routine puts the anxiety through the roof. Activities that feed the mind are nowhere to be found. A mere mention of art gallery openings, museums (not the horse and buggy kind), world-class music, theatre, amazing restaurants, street food, diversity, and an abundance of loft living spaces make most in a small town cringe as if they just sniffed their own poop. If I hear from someone, “oh, it’s such a good place to raise a family” then I immediately want to run for the concrete jungle. Stillness and simplicity of needs and wants is no way to go through life. The demons can be tamped down with a trip to Denver, which is on the low-end in size of an acceptable big city. It is the 4 1/2 hours of “beautiful country” you have to drive through to get there that is so painful. Once the skyline of downtown Denver comes into view my sense of ease and being content finally comes into some sort of equilibrium. Brunch should not be a special occasion, it should be part of a lifestyle. A movie at 11am on a weekday, a city provides multiple options. Film festivals, food festivals, buskers, opportunities for education, public lectures, bookstores, comic book stores, and live jazz with a stiff shot of bourbon. I find no comfort in a small town and I never have. Circumstances of birth, career, right turns and left turns have put me in a small town. The craving to be in a big city is at times overpowering and thoughts turn to San Francisco, Washington, D.C., New York City, London, Vienna, Paris (oh sweet Paris), Los Angeles, Boston, and even Las Vegas. A giant hit of Las Vegas would do wonders right now. The sweet hot hit of a drug that is needed so very badly and hits the system like a line of sweet Nirvana.

Fuck small towns.