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The5thCandidate · 04-04-2005, 10:03 PM

When I got off the bus at Westford, I noticed three things immediately.

First, I noticed the smell. It was a smell I had never smelled before, and at that point I could only guess what it was. I know now that it was, in fact, the collective odor of 7000 hideous people, 2000 weird looking people, 12 good looking people, their awkward and unnappealing houses, their stale and stained office buildings, their ridiculously identical cars of colours varying from light brown to tan to beige to taupe to one bright green, their desolate and dreary elementary schools, their brand new yet filthy high school, their thousands of pounds worth of discarded coffee cups and beer cans, and their staggeringly confusing bus station. I had a headache about twenty seconds after my first whiff, and it remained for the entirety of my three week stay, no matter how many tylenols or ibuprofens I managed to cram down my swollen throat.

The next thing I noticed was the sounds, which, I swear to you, was the most depressing thing I have ever heard, and hopefully ever will hear. The sound was one of a constant sigh of unaccomplishment mixed with the moan and pitiful whimper of the lost and confused, with just a touch of slight psychosis and minor shock. Oh, and there was also the faintest hint of dying ninety year olds, which seemed to be present not only to one's ears, but to one's eyes as well. No matter where I went there was always a ninety year old man sitting somewhere dying out loud, and nobody seemed to notice him, no matter how much phlegm or blood he coughed up, and no matter how many times he asked if you'd seen his dog or cat or son or house. There was a sort of physical quality to the sound in this town, that made me want to vomit everytime I closed my eyes. I took to sleeping with ear plugs, because I would have nightmares every night about pathetic ghosts who were looking for their house, and all I could do was run away while they bled on me.

The third thing I noticed was the sheer horror one feels when they enter this town and realize that they have no money to leave and therefore must get a job here and work among these people and walk along these streets and listen to these old men and sleep in one of these horrid, ancient beds while the sounds and smells fill up your brain until you wake up crying and sweating from a pathetic nightmare only to realize that the entire town is simultaneously having the same nightmare and always will, every night, for the rest of their lives, until the day that they die. This town was the physical embodiment of pain and sorrow and failure and everyone who stepped within its borders knew it and felt it. It was concentrated depression, and it had absolutely no merit, other than to make one appreciate everything else that they have ever experienced. Westford is the only part of my life that I would like to forget, because while I was there I simply stopped living. Westford is the only truely dead place on earth.

04-04-2005, 10:03 PM	#6 (permalink)
The5thCandidate Crazy Location: East coast of Canada	When I got off the bus at Westford, I noticed three things immediately. First, I noticed the smell. It was a smell I had never smelled before, and at that point I could only guess what it was. I know now that it was, in fact, the collective odor of 7000 hideous people, 2000 weird looking people, 12 good looking people, their awkward and unnappealing houses, their stale and stained office buildings, their ridiculously identical cars of colours varying from light brown to tan to beige to taupe to one bright green, their desolate and dreary elementary schools, their brand new yet filthy high school, their thousands of pounds worth of discarded coffee cups and beer cans, and their staggeringly confusing bus station. I had a headache about twenty seconds after my first whiff, and it remained for the entirety of my three week stay, no matter how many tylenols or ibuprofens I managed to cram down my swollen throat. The next thing I noticed was the sounds, which, I swear to you, was the most depressing thing I have ever heard, and hopefully ever will hear. The sound was one of a constant sigh of unaccomplishment mixed with the moan and pitiful whimper of the lost and confused, with just a touch of slight psychosis and minor shock. Oh, and there was also the faintest hint of dying ninety year olds, which seemed to be present not only to one's ears, but to one's eyes as well. No matter where I went there was always a ninety year old man sitting somewhere dying out loud, and nobody seemed to notice him, no matter how much phlegm or blood he coughed up, and no matter how many times he asked if you'd seen his dog or cat or son or house. There was a sort of physical quality to the sound in this town, that made me want to vomit everytime I closed my eyes. I took to sleeping with ear plugs, because I would have nightmares every night about pathetic ghosts who were looking for their house, and all I could do was run away while they bled on me. The third thing I noticed was the sheer horror one feels when they enter this town and realize that they have no money to leave and therefore must get a job here and work among these people and walk along these streets and listen to these old men and sleep in one of these horrid, ancient beds while the sounds and smells fill up your brain until you wake up crying and sweating from a pathetic nightmare only to realize that the entire town is simultaneously having the same nightmare and always will, every night, for the rest of their lives, until the day that they die. This town was the physical embodiment of pain and sorrow and failure and everyone who stepped within its borders knew it and felt it. It was concentrated depression, and it had absolutely no merit, other than to make one appreciate everything else that they have ever experienced. Westford is the only part of my life that I would like to forget, because while I was there I simply stopped living. Westford is the only truely dead place on earth. __________________ Muthtard?! Don't let'th be thilly. Lemon, now that'th different...