Can't Sleep, Camouflaged Masses Will Eat Me

I had a nifty loft apartment on the East End (the "Good Part") of Louisville. I was a 15 minute drive from two malls, where I would go to worship bi-weekly (on payday). I was five minutes from a Border's bookstore where I would worship more frequently. There was a Starbuck's and a Kroger that sold sushi three minutes down the road. I had Steak 'N' Shake and White Castle at my disposal 24/7.
Then, I made the mistake of deciding I hated working in the city. I applied to, and was subsequently hired by, a service an hour west. In the boondocks. Life was good. I had my nifty apartment, a job I really liked, and a cat to keep me company. Then I allowed a boyfriend to point out that I was driving 50 minutes, each way, to get to work. Even worse, he had to drive 50 minutes to see me. Believing that love was in the air, I allowed him to corral two of his closest friends and move me to a duplex on a dead end road. Little did I know what I had gotten myself into.
I grew up in Northern Indiana, and have never really been a city girl, but these people made me look like Michigan Avenue. I was suddenly immersed in a culture of camouflage, pickup trucks, and chewing tobacco. While I consider camouflage a crime to fashion, that was only the tip of the iceberg. The official Wal-Marting uniform is baggy t-shirt, flannel pajama pants, fake Crocs, and uncombed hair. I was surrounded by Glamour Don'ts. I couldn't spit without hitting some poor child in a "Git 'er done" shirt. "Have you no pride?" I want to yell. It's not that hard, nor is it terribly time consuming, to take a shower, put on some blue jeans, and find a shirt without motor oil stains on it. I did it, and so can you.