Here Is How Ohio Is

I am not in Alaska yet, and this is for a couple of reasons. The first reason is that travel is not something that can be compared to continuous data, and is instead a series of compartmentalized steps that nobody has the authority to bypass. The result of all these rules is my presence in Ohio at this moment. Ohio is a place that, until what was technically yesterday, I hadn’t seen since January. What’s more, August and January are the two months during which I’ve spent the most total time in Ohio, and none of these Augusts or Januaries have ever been good times for this person. The worst part is that minor, month/season-specific details from January appear to be bleeding into this particular August. For example there are three two-liter bottles of Coke on the counter in the basement of the house, all of which feature polar bears and express a written hope that my holidays be happy. This is very unsettling for a person who enjoys both cola and Christmas as much as I do.

It gets worse. Ohio is also a place with a number of shelves that features objects the sight of which upsets me for reasons that are difficult to explain and therefore understand. I am not mad at the objects for being on the shelves, instead I am bothered rather tremendously by the simple fact they are existing in Ohio, when in fact it seems like they ought to be somewhere else. There are two shoeboxes and one sketchbook especially responsible for this mental unrest, but it’s unclear at this point what should be done. Last year I took the precautionary measure of cutting out all the words I ever wrote in the sketchbook.

I will now offer evidence that suggests that Ohio might not be a terrible place. My parents live here, despite the fact that their lives seem to be defined by extreme silence, and take place in a town in which it is unclear whether or not they actually know anyone despite having been here for two years.



Finally, Ohio provided me the adventure of dealing with a very scared mouse that had ensconced itself pretty securely in an area near the house’s kitchen. The story about this mouse ends with it being captured in a dustpan before being released outside, where it was in all likelihood devoured by an owl. The blood is not on my hands, the blood is on Mother Nature's hands and also the owl's, but owls do not have hands.