Dear Minnesota --
I love you. I do. You are wide and tall and varied and beautiful and full of landscapes and corners that draw me in and whirl me out and leave me dizzy and heady and full of adulations.
But--can I just be honest, here? I'm really not a fan of all this dirt.
I like soil. I even like mud puddles in the heart of spring. But this is not soil or mud, Minnesota; this is grainy and dull and creeping stuff. This is brown surrounding every bend, brown accosting every surface, a film beneath my nails I cannot see or scrape away yet ever feel seeping into my skin.
I know you can't help it. It's just who you are. We all have ugly phases. Remember middle school? But though I love you unconditionally, I must insist that this dinginess has reached it's limit (Okay, my limit. I'm being selfish, but it is me looking at you, MN, wanting--remember--to extol your virtues, so maybe help me out a bit?).
If it's all right with you, I think it's time for either spring or another blizzard. You pick.
The Girl With The Wandering Eyes
(as in Costa Rica)