That being said, of course, I hope for the best and fear the worst. At present, the praying all over television, gushing about God on the radio, and ranting about Those Evil Muslim Terrorists is making me ill. Driving home from work, I was literally surrounded by American flags on cars, antenna, stuck at every intersection, hanging in store windows...hundreds of them. Everywhere. It is as if I went to sleep and woke up in my worst nightmare. I am submersed in a bunch of overly-Patriotic, war-happy Texans banging their drums and screaming for blood before the dust has even settled in New York, and overwhelmed by hundreds of miles of people who are literally shocked to find out there is a person on the planet who does not believe in God (besides the heathen Muslims). I am stuck in a sea of God-loving goobers, and too poor at this point to escape. Not that they don't have a right to be God-loving goobers, but I wish I could go to another planet so that I wouldn't have to be subject to their wars over who has the better invisible friend.

There isn't any good cheese here, either. I'll be damned if I can find a European cheese shop. The wonderful land of Canada whet my appetite for other cultures, and that oily crap they sell wrapped in plastic just doesn't cut it any more. (Not that I ever ate it to begin with.) The only boursin to be found comes in a small cardboard box and costs a small fortune. You can forget finding it in mass quantities at a cheese counter. They only sell La Vache Qui Rie in one flavour -- bland -- and they actually print "The Laughing Cow" on the package for the generally stupid Americans. Even Minneapolis had a better selection than exists down here in the South. Minneapolis is mostly full of liberals, feminists, vegetarians, new-agers, and hippies, so the gourmet and organic groceries stocked a wider variety of foods that haven't been through a hundred stages of processing. Because, you know, processing food is bad. And stuff.

Anyway, my Irish friend has been making a point of tormenting me. I have never felt like I belonged here much, and currently that feeling is only being made infinitely more intense. I have taken to the idea of going to parks and drawing outside, and have been passing my card out to anyone who shows interest in my work. I am more and more fervently making plans for my escape. In the meantime, he sends me random snippets of poetry and stories/descriptions of various parts of Europe he has been to in an effort to accomplish... I don't know what.

I dream of a land where everyone talks funny. Because, you know, that is the real reason why I want to live there. The hick accents of the southern US tire me. My voice is a subtle collage of a Southern drawl, with a bit of a Canadian twist, and the fast-dissipating effect of a Minnesotan long O. Not to mention my curious pronounciation of the letter a, which seems to be a hangover from doing countless different accents and strange voices in drama class and improv comedic acting. My spelling, despite accusations to the contrary, is more Canadian than British, because it is my understanding that they spell the word tyre, which I do not actually do. I would not attempt to say I have British spelling, since I am sure I do not know much at all of the differences between the two. I have, however, read much Canadian magazines and literature, and prefer their spelling to the American. I imagine once given the opportunity to learn British English, I would completely switch...but that is really not important to the point.

The point is that I want to leave, now more than ever. I will work constantly if I have to, and take to the streets and beg if that is not enough. I am already doing everything I can. Only if I could live in a place where everyone laughs at the way I talk! I would do spot-on impersonations of George W for their amusement. I could stomp around in my cowboy boots and call everyone pad'nah. Then I would go down to the grocery and buy some boursin and pumpernickel rolls and eat that for brunch. I also want to live where the trees change colour. They don't do that here. They did in Minneapolis, but it was rather boring because I was too distracted reminding my co-workers that I was going to have a large chunk of dead animal flesh for lunch, while putting on my fur coat to go outside. Ah, those were the days.

So... I want to go home. I want to see things older than a superficial couple of hundred years. I want to feel history. And I want some decent cheese. But most of all, I want to hear people that talk funny.

And I forgot to work it into this article, but Kuro5hin.org sucks.