>Wilmington: Where Else Would You Rather Be? (Let me Tell You)

Looking ahead at my life the other day, I considered my career possibilities should I ever blossom into what I went to college for. What cities do I have to choose from if and when I decide to move “up.” Raleigh comes first to mind, along with all those smaller areas around it like Durham and Winston-Salem, plus about 15 other New Bern-sized cities I could move to while still being in the proximity of this area. Who knows where a job in one of those towns could take me.

There was one town that kept popping up in my search, though … one I couldn’t seem to shake. Wilmington.

I am starting to see why so many people are attracted to that shit hole. It cannot be avoided when looking for potential jobs! Every bloody internet site seemed to feature it.

That in mind – and also for the sake of reminding myself that no matter how bad things may get for me here in New Bern (I’m not saying they’re at all bad at this point, I’m just being realistic) – I’ve come up with a list of places, both real and imagined, I’d rather live than Wilmington, N.C., … especially Wilmington five years from now. They are in no particular order.

1. Inside a rabid, mange-ridden stray dog’s butt hole, with scabies
2. Downtown Baghdad, Iraq, in 2003, with scabies
3. Sharing a jail cell as Michael Vick, with a husky dog lover who hasn’t been with a woman since he started serving his sentence three years ago, with scabies
4. Bolivar, N.Y., with scabies
5. Buried alive in a casket full of sweaty maggots, with scabies
6. Shrunk down to three inches, under the flabby breast of a 275-pound, 64-year-old woman on a scalding hot July day. She also has skin tags galore. I would have scabies.
7. Hell, with scabies
8. In a port-a-potty tipped over on its side, with scabies
9. Under the fingernail of a guy who tests toilet paper for a living, with scabies
10. Anywhere on the planet, with scabies

Today I experienced my first incident of heckling while riding my bike since moving to New Bern. Someone called me a queer as I rode home from work, to which I replied in a loud voice that Jesus hates them.

This run-in with the “all bicyclists/moped riders are too poor to afford a car or have a D.U.I.” type marked a significant day, though it ended my streak of time without someone trying to either get me to crash so I fly into traffic and witness my own head getting smashed by a Ford F-8,050 pulling an empty, 12-foot trailer for no apparent reason, or just plain make me feel bad. One instance out of countless trips.

In Wilmington, this happened on an almost-daily basis.

God only knows what the shit hole will be like five years from now … I flinch at the thought.

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