the east coast is a fallacy (and this house is rotting)

your grandmother was born in this house, the daughter of immigrants. she moved three towns over until she got knocked up and came home. your mother was born in this house too. she went to college across the state, moved out to vermont, got a dog. and then your grandfather got sick and she moved back here to take care of him. the plan is always, we’ll move to new york and be starving artists following our dreams. until, that is, college comes and you wind up back in the same place you’ve always been. if you’re lucky you’ll move to new york for a few years, almost disappearing off the face of the earth, and then you’ll resurface a few months shy of your 22nd birthday. you’ll return back to wisconsin with your tail between your legs collin fevre style, toting stories of a whirlwind summer romance in montauk, a wild night in manhattan, and a mysterious older friend in the hamptons. you’ll serve spotted cow and leinenkugel's to blue-collar workers. you’ll give up your sexy new york cocktails for canned beer and your bfa will get you nothing in the end. you were born here, in that hospital down the road, and you’ll die here, in the nursing home just across the way. no one from this town makes it out alive.