The Isolation Journals - Day 47

Good morning, good morning.  Things around here seem like they are starting to slowly inchworm back to some semblance of a new normal (that's a lot of hedging).  There must be bars open somewhere, because the drunk people are back to yelling in the streets late at night.  

When the bars first closed, the silence on the weekends was eerie.  No one was coming home drunk anymore.  They were for sure still drunk, more so than ever probably, but they were already at home.  But Friday night, we heard the telltale signs of a city springing back to life, like little birdies letting out their first chirps of springtime.  Except in this scenario, the birdie is a good ol' boy with beer muscles and boat shoes, and the chirping is actually yelling something about 'Roll Tide' and then projectile vomiting.

Today's prompt is a love letter to a place.

Prompt:  Write an open letter to the city you love, or the area code you rep. It could be the one you grew up in or the one that feels the most like home. Start with: “Dear [name of place], this is a love letter.”

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Dear New Jersey,

This is a love letter.  Seriously - keep reading!  I'm not screwing with you.  Don't act like you've never gotten one of these before.  I suppose it's possible you haven't, or it could be that you receive so much hate mail you've stopped opening your letters.

That's fair.  You get a bad rap - people calling you the armpit of the country, claiming you're nothing more than a turnpike bookended by a parking lot and a swamp.  

Believe me, I feel your pain and I've been out here in these streets, that is to say, the parts of America that aren't you.  And it's rough!  People act sincerely nice, and here in the South that's such a mindfuck, because when they say "bless your heart," it turns out that means they pity you for being so stupid.  You, on the other hand, are not a bullshitter.  People know where they stand with you.  You think someone's an asshole, you tell 'em right to their stupid face.

You drive like you have someplace to be, you make offers people can't refuse, you're crusty, salty, no-nonsense.  But deep down, you have a heart of gold.  You're the embodiment of an Italian grandma, forcing manicotti on your family until they are physically ill.  "Mangia," you say, and we keep eating, because who could say no to your hoagies, your pork roll, your scrapple, your pizza.  

You hold onto your people, so tightly, in fact, that you make us pay to leave you.  "Oh, you want to leave home?  Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."  And then you hit us with a bridge toll on our way out.  You're petty like that, and I respect it.

New Jersey, you're perfect(ly awful) just the way you are.  Don't ever change.

Love,

Katie

Digging deep into the archives for this MS Paint masterpiece