Dear California:

I’ve spent approximately two and a half years of my life on your freeways. You were always doing construction on the 405 between Warner and my exit. You always advised of sewage plumes too late. You charged a hundred and twenty-five bucks for a pass to Bolsa Chica State Park, where you advised of sewage plumes too late. Your waves were always best during work hours. Your Junes were gloomy, and sometimes July too. Your people are vapid and materialistic and irritatingly skinny. Everyone drives ridiculously expensive and ridiculously clean cars. You eat up wild land and spit out a hundred identical homes that cost over a million bucks. Your cultural mecca is L.A., California! Your governor almost makes Jesse Ventura look respectable. Your malls are too crowded, and your land is unaffordable. Half your people walk around with their ass-cracks hanging out of their boardshorts. You built a toll-road through one of the last swaths of untouched wilderness in the OC. The toll-road was extremely convenient. You invented ecoterrorism. And smog. And if you didn’t invent them, you certainly excel in boob jobs. You’re almost uninhabitable, California. It’s a wonder there are enough under-nourished, overly fit people to clog up your freeways.

Oh California. I miss you like hell, and I’m coming back soon.

XOXO,
R.

P.S. - My bangs look horrid. I think they may have belonged to Andy Warhol in a previous life. Will they even let me into California? Will they make me live in Chino?