The Death of a Fantasy

I have this fantasy about living in Montana, far away from civilization. I'm sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of my house holding a shotgun in my hands, yelling,

"Get the hell off my property!"

This is the fantasy I have for those times when I'm sick of the human race, all the bills to pay and the kids screaming "Go poopy!" in the house behind this one. I realize now that that fantasy has been shot to hell, never to be used again. I hate living outside of the city. It's not that I don't like to go camping and hang out in the wilderness for a while, I really like that, but living out here for two months has brought on a new kind of isolation that I can't wait to get away from. And this is only the suburbs. Could you see me in Montana? There'd be no shotgun and tough guy attitude. It would just be me on my hands and knees begging someone to get me the hell out of there.