Spring break has ended, and I could not be happier that it ended. I’m glad to be back in Southern California.
During my time off, I somehow ended up in Seattle, WA for my aunt’s wedding. While she skillfully married into another family and got me a new uncle, I could not help but notice the bad weather. It was cold, so I sought the wisdom of a Washington native, and this happened on Facebook:
So, basically, my aunt got married in a living hell wonderful place that happens to rain too much for my taste.
Maybe I have been spoiled all my life—unknowingly—just as Herrera posed unknowingly like Perry. I say this because as I was minding my own business in the Pacific Northwest, I on multiple occasions screamed internally as I zipped up my entirely non-waterproof jacket and wore its hood and tied the strings on it to keep the heat in, lest I perish in the 47-degree weather. This was no place for flip flops.
(There was also wind that blew so hard that fountain water flew onto my face.)
After this venture into new territory, I went into even newer territory in the northern part of my home state, where I visited friends at colleges I will not name. I was back in The Golden State, but there was something wrong. Where was the Spanish?
There’s a lot more about SoCal that makes me love it so much, like the glamor of Los Angeles, the laid-backness, or the fine-fresh-fierce quality I think I have, but being here is something you kind of feel rather than explain. I don’t be hatin’ on them other places, but I do be lovin’ on dis place here.
Imagine a catchy pop single. It is a worldwide hit. You sing along to your summer anthem: Washington Women.
(As a SoCal native, I mean no offense to anybody.)