I think you’re wrong if you believe that a “nice place to live” is place that has a prolific “nightlife”, a unique “culture”, and a well-funded “education system”. That’s the wrong attitude to have. A nice place to live is a place where everyone steps outside of their home and feels a small shred of solidarity with their neighbors in knowing that they live in a goddamn madhouse.
Take my neighborhood for example. Now I would hardly describe it as a “shithole”, but it certainly has its “eccentricities” to say the least. One of our elected officials got caught exposing his penis at a gas station and then, weeks later — just a quarter mile down the road — a road rage incident went viral. I love living here.
It’s never the good things that create the strongest bonds. It’s the shit things; things like the godawful sports team, the rampant corruption, the crippling depression you feel because there’s no future. One of the joys in going to the gas station is seeing the guy behind the counter curse god because he sat down on a piss-soaked toilet. It’s the small, relatable incidents like that which brings us closer.
So in an era where we’re all lonely, I say we should forget about finding “our people”. You are an island unto yourself. No one will ever understand you and there’s no sense in trying. Instead, I say you should wonder down that dark alleyway. Maybe try some “stealth camping” by that graffiti-ridden dumpster behind Kroger. Perhaps that knife-wielding hobo has something interesting to say. You never know. You might make a friend or two.