Tracy, California. Tracy, a town of 95,387 souls surrounded by nothing, unless someone considers row after row of almond trees and cow lots something. Maybe, if you squint, the blossoms on the almond trees could be mistaken for cherry trees, could be mistaken for somewhere beautiful. I saw the cherry trees bloom in Japan once; they were lovely. But I've found no pergola-esque structures here. Instead of the experience of a Japanese garden, everything here is tainted with the smell of sugar beet processing. The only reason I hear that people come here, stay here, live here, is because it's cheap. What a unremarkable distinguishing characteristic.

I hate it here.

Tracy was named for Lathrop J. Tracy, a grain merchant and railroad director in Mansfield, Ohio. This info, stolen from the city of Tracy's website, leads me to believe that the original Mr. Tracy probably sucked. After realizing that Mr. Original Tracy had the astounding wit to name his son Rufus A. Tracy, I am sure he sucked. Rufus was, and remains, a joke of a name. Nonetheless, maybe if they named the town after someone more interesting, the town would have persisted in the spirit of their name, aspiring to more creative, vivacious, maybe the town would follow.

It does make sense though; the only thing this town had going for it was the railroads. Why not lick the boots of a railroad baron by naming your town after him? Why not rejoice in being a pass-through town. A merry-go-round town, one that never goes anywhere despite all it's motion. An airport of a town, one where no one ever intends to stay. A treadmill of a town, because like a treadmill, people ever only find themselves there in deep depths of glumness, with no better options.

I hate it here.

All I want is trails. Or woods. Or mountains. All I want is fresh air, and maybe decent water. (The Tracy municipal water ain't great; read up on the stats and get yourself a filter.) I don't mind a small town. A small town nestled in the armpit of a big town is sad though. We're a bedroom community, and as such, it's a snooze here.

I live right by a freeway. While I say "right by", what I technically mean is that the houses across the cul-de-sac from me abut the freeway with their backyards. I live by the freeway. Just on the other side of that freeway sits the sugar beet factory. So, not only is it loud, it's also smelly. I live in a dimly lit moldy home with the soundtrack of cars rushing past, desperately hoping to to stop in the middle-places, the Tracys of the world. I live amongst the musk of cows and beets, hoping desperately to get out of this holding pattern.

I just want a plan. I just want an end date. I just want a reason. I have none right now. I have no real goals. No next steps. No "what else". It is.. depressing. Bleak. Blase in the cruelest of ways. I moved here, with you, thinking that we'd create a "something else" together. But, I simply find that there is no "something else". There's no other plan. This is it. The bleakness here is mine forever.

I hate it here.

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