Orlando and I have officially broken up.

We had a good run and I’ll always think back on these 18 months fondly, but truth be told, it was doomed from the start.

I debated taking a 2 hour drive just to smell the ocean the very first night we spent together, alone, craving the sounds of a crashing shoreline. She just stared vacantly at her congested interstate, silently proud of the raucous and comfortably far from the beaches I so desperately missed, content in coddling her elitist hipster disciples into the wee hours of the morning.

Sometimes, late at night, if you’re very quite, between Whiskey Dicks and Graffiti Junction, you can hear the city whispering to her occupants, reminding them to throw their skinny jeans in the dryer before leaving the house for optimal results in loss of circulation.

She had her moments, “The City Beautiful.” She did. These moments provided slivers of deliverance from the time spent basking in the arrogance of her daily achievements, manifesting the daily gatherings of intellectuals who desire nothing more than making their presence known at Stardust (an awesome little spot that just so happens to attract a certain breed, henceforth refered to as “Orlando Elitists”).

Ultimately, O-Town was just too far from everything I love and not nearly far enough from what I know to create the illusion of expanded horizons or new beginnings. A lesser version of home, really… and who wants a knock off when the real thing is just within reach.

So long, O-Town.

Thanks for having me.