Texas

During my first day here in Austin, it was 97 degrees and humid as hell. It felt like I was in China again¹—you know, if you ignore the three-ton pick-up trucks and the “No Open Carry” signs plastered all over stores. And there is undoubtedly that certain Texas charm, there’s no denying that: the live music in the bars; the shops full of cowboy boots and hats; and the freedom that’s thicker than the sticky air.

I’ve been saying for some time now that I’d think it’d be fun to live in the South.² But my blue-necked California/Colorado kith are too goddamned closed-minded to even consider it. Of course, I look like me, and I don’t have to worry about getting knocked up and then resort to a DIY abortion. But yeah, sure, politicking aside, then (select parts of) the South would be fun to live in.

I came to Texas to see about a girl if I could do a Ph.D. here. It was between Texas and New York. But the answer is going to be neither. It’s actually been quite a personal journey. I think I’ve realized that I’m not a graduate-school boy; I like my cushy life; I don’t have any burning intellectual passion—hell, I’m starting to believe that I don’t really have any actual interests that persist.³

So that’s been a bit of a reality check for me in the like depressing sense. I feel like I always knew that being someone who gets a Ph.D. is the type of person I should be—but I’m not. And accepting that stings. Because now if there’s no new distinct milestone to set my sights on in my future, then this is just, like, it. This is my life now, and it feels so fucking aimless and hollow. I guess maybe I should buy some boots and spurs while I’m down here, then I can get up on a new horse and try and figure it out.