I love Indiana. From having to plan my graduation party around 500 traffic to wanting to sell the Colts back to whatever city they used to screw with increased sales taxes, from the lack of metropolitan havens to the nonexistent public transportation, from the governor covering Eli Lilly and Company’s stupidity to mercury being used in our vaccine preserves, for some bizarre reason, I still have a fondness for the state. I believe the state is trying to kill me, but I still love it like an abused child waiting for my step daddy to hug me. Really, other daddy, it’s not my fault my hair looks red. Why don’t you love me?

Indiana, I love you. While you have a fair amount of baggage, you still maintain a quaint country humor about you even though Indianapolis is trying to break off all the ties with good, old fashion living by maintaining some form of hygiene and installing indoor plumbing. You pick me up during the depression back to school week with the lure of barnyard animals to view, deep-fry, and digest all at the same event. You have nurtured my love of all things fried, barbequed, baked, and sweetened with honey. I feel like I can walk around the neighborhood without being fatally wounded (unless I’m in one of the tiny towns by the highway at night).

And yes, I love living in the creamy blue center of a red state.

You know when I’m actually home.

-Roxy

P.S. Jazz gets all the credit for the title. The only question is, has she written the song that goes with the title? Hmmmm?
P.P.S. Oh, yeah, I'm not dead and sorry if you thought/hoped I was.

Labels: misplaced pride

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