Going Home Again

I live approximately two and a half  hours from my home town, which makes going back and visiting family and friends quite easy.

I despise these visits.

The justifications for these strong negative feelings are varied and pretty damn complicated but the first and foremost, and probably most superficial, reason for hating these trips is being in the car for more than a few minutes at a time with my three children. I’m convinced that my own personal hell will be driving for eternity down a featureless interstate with no exits while the kids scream from the back seat. And I’ll probably need to pee.

One of the other reasons why I dislike going back home is that my home town is Charleston, South Carolina, which is if you don’t know, a foodie’s paradise. (This would be a great place for me show examples with links but I’m a terribly lazy person.)

I love good food.

I’m always broke when I go to Charleston.

This last trip to Charleston I was able to enjoy a lunch from Chick-fil-a, which I admit was kind of a treat due to not eating there since the whole giving money to hate groups thing they were into there for a while, but still, Chick-fil-a? This is a city where your smallest hole-in-the-wall diner serves dishes with shrimp that were caught earlier in the day from local waters and bathroom stalls in the diviest of the dive bars have graffiti dedicated to the fatty rich wonders of foie gras next to the “for a good time call…” graffiti. And I have to eat at a fucking fast food place that’s famous for fried chicken sandwiches and a deep hatred for homosexuals…

As for all the other reasons I dislike going home again, well, lets say they’re directly related to the great bouts of homesickness going back causes.

I miss you Charleston.


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