Things have slowed down enough in the war department for me to send this telegram:
John Raymond thinks I want to move back to Charlotte. He's even said that there's a job offer and that all I need to do is shoot him a number.
Alright, John, here's your number: 140. That's my current bowling average. If I move to Atlanta Junior, I won't be able to drink, I mean, bowl almost every Saturday with someone who is just as pathetic of an excuse to call a bowler as I.
The next thing I'm sure he'll try to do is hook me up with someone as a draw to get me down there. Just because there's 480 miles between the Ville and his la-la land doesn't mean that the women are any more logical, or less of emotional train wrecks.
Maybe it's just the idea of living back in the town with no identity, and maybe it's the idea that I have a ton of family in the Ville that is keeping me here, or maybe it's the fact that I'll be forty this year and my giveadamner is broken. Whatever it is, I'm having a hard time seeing myself move (again)to Charlotte (again).
It would be great to be near the Yankee again, re-hashing stories that were absurdly boring and mostly retarded the first time they were told, and getting to see his kids on a regular basis, but that would be six or seven people I would be around versus leaving my brothers, not to mention the Pot Belly Republic, behind. Not to mention eating over at the Wolf's house.
I heard that the Corpsman was moving to North Carolina, but if you put that in the positives, I would have to argue. Have you smelled that man?
Oh well, I'll run some numbers and see what's up.
