A Lover's Hate of a Place He Loves

I hate this place as much as I love it. I find amusement in it's absurdity of normalcy and then find solace and home in it only minutes later. The people find place in me like a breath a longed to have. Then I hear of other people, of this thing called society and culture and I feel as if I have been hurt, wounded and want to strike out at this writhing force with something be it a chair, a fan, a book, even a stick, but I know that does shit. The mass still writhes and it still unnerves me like the hideous face of an actor hidden behind a mask. Can I call this place home? Yeah, of course. Do I desperately crave something of America here, Something so the core of me no longer boils? Nah, cause America has the same things. My blood boils there too, and a different but similar unwrithing mass draws me to action foolishly.