in valencia hating boston

I hate talking about what I do, or what school I go to or what I know how to do, its not important for me, its not really me, its what I have to do in order to afford the time and space to be closer to who I am. to runaway from the machines, misrable machines completey eaten up by standardized aleady defined life paths. to be this or to be that and make that much and eat at that resturant with the really sphisticated whatever and wear that skirt or that shirt not because they like it but because they think others will appreciate its price, so eaten up with the desire to be something totally self fabricated, reinventing their own history, telling people about their imagined past, their fine taste in cusine and fuck... its too much dealing with such constant presense of insecure people who think that being agressive, mean and an asshole means that they have a good grip on life, a good sense of who they are.. such delusion. there are the poorest people I encounter. I am not looking forward to going back to that.