After this, let's go get funnel cake.
When we first met, you often spoke of your travels as a child to Carthage and Ithaca. And of how much you wanted to go back. Of how much you would like to take me with you.
And I was admittedly naive to think you meant the Carthage and Ithaca on the other side of the Atlantic. The famous historical ones. The ones whose very names are synonymous with epic love. Especially when you kept talking about how your favorite part was how they both had so many oval slick tracks for go cart racing and “more awesome fucking funnel cake stands than you can swing a dead possum at.”
I think that if the Carthage and Ithaca of which you’d spoke had been also-ran tourist trap towns in any state but Florida, we might have been able to stay together.
Alas, I cannot be your Dido, your Penelope. They are probably to be found in a trailer park in the Middle West. Anything looks exotic to those sad fuckers.
