I don't like him

Of all the places I've lived and the good and bad memories associated with each, there is one place I despise. You don't have to be around too long to know where it is, and what I wish would happen to it. About this time a year ago, I was living in Van Horn, Texas, and it was not by choice. Sure, I could've left, I could've bailed, I could've moved, but where was I leaving to? Bailing to? Moving where? So I stayed in hell's armpit. I have one good memory from the four months I lived there. I can isolate it from the surrounding circumstances, accusations, darkness, and savor it for what it was. I've been mostly silent about those four months, and the preceeding and ensuing events that led to my getting there and leaving. Both happened in a hurry. I didn't talk about it, because I didn't want him to know that I knew the asshole he is. Now I want to tell him to his face. Or at least a text. But it's over now. He doesn't carry a superficial title over me; I don't have to listen to his pompous bullshit or be victim to his harrowing blunders and deceitful coverups. And the bonus is that I can buy as much ***damn ice as I want. Yet, here I am - this weekend, this morning showering and suddenly being back in Van Horn in my head. I can barely say the two words without shuddering, or at the very least getting pissed off, and in some cases crying. A lot was lost there. I can't think of anything gained. Freedom, maybe, but that's a stretch. Our freedom would've come sooner or later. An asshole is an asshole is an asshole - that's going to be apparent regardless of where you live. But why these thoughts today? I don't know. Perhaps because I was telling my story to a friend the other night. A new friend, who was asking typical questions of a typical life, except my life wasn't typical, which results in untypical answers. Most people I placate with my spin on typical answers, but she's an actual friend. So I told her my story. The truth is that he is a part of my story. What I do with that truth is up to me.