Salt Lake City, I want so much to love you.
I want to call you home. I wish to scour racks and racks of books in your countless vintage and consignment stores. I want to be friends with your inhabitants, the ones that dress like me and listen to the same pretentious bullshit that I tend to. I want to master your transit system so that I can go to random points of architectual interest and take several hundred pictures. I want to frequent your hole-in-the-wall treasures, taste the local brews, and become acquainted with all the venues. And I would really enjoy to join your impressive workforce (but not your church, sorry) so I can make lots of money and contribute to Utahn (Utahn?) society.
I want to like you, really I do. But I think you're full of shit.
I hate your weather. Everything passes through so quickly, and I worry often about my life and the fact that a giant tree thrashes against my bedroom window throughout the night. I have nightmares about dying by a tornado. Death by tornado. It's slightly worse than Moving to Utah. (I kid.) However, your lightning storms and hail are too close for comfort, as are your relentless heatwaves and climate changes. Yesterday I lounged in a tank top and shorts and went to bed in leggings, socks, jammies, and a long-sleeved shirt. I mean, honestly. What the heck are you trying to accomplish--besides destroying my complexion? (Also, please note that I do not yet own any snow-battling clothing and kindly request your compliance along this front.)
Utah, I loathe your buses and trains. I would appreciate the frequency of routes, but I hate the number of hobos I have come into contact with just to go to dumb job interviews for even dumber jobs I don't even want. The rules and regulations of the UTA are so much a nuisance that I don't see the point in trying out all the shops and cafes I see around here--5.00 just to get to and from a place I might despise? Shit. I can't afford that. You crazy.
Quite honestly, I'm confused by your demographic. Everything is clearly influenced by The Thing That Shall Not Be Named, and yet I know there's gotta be my kind of people out there (there is--I saw them at the She & Him show last week, minus the tokers). I will have you know--in case it hasn't been made clear: I will not budge. I might falter, but only by my own design (and only sometimes...and always with grace). What I mean to say is I know who I am (I think) and I know what I think (I think). I love my tattoos, my piercings, my loud mouth, and everything I believe in and stand for. So don't go thinking you can change them. (And don't go telling my Mom that she can, either.) Though I am confused by you, I think we can still be friends.
If you know anything, you know that I desperately need to get out of the house. You know that I need a social atmosphere, in conjecture with the responsible ones and whatnot. I need to live before I'm in mid-twenties (WHICH IS COMING SOON) and can weap at the thought that I haven't done a damn thing with my life, and I'm kind of counting on you to help me through this. Look, I know you're a busy, bustling kind of place and so, you've got a lot on your hands. But I need this to work out, and I need it to work out now. I promise I won't hold the obvious against you--even though you're kind of turning my little brother into a preteen, robot prick. I just need you to cooperate with me, please.
Basically, I'm trying to work with you. I'm trying to figure you out, but you're such a tease and honestly, it's rather intimidating for all the wrong and right reasons. Please, just let me love you. Or at least enjoy you more than I am currently.
With hope and half-empty threats of vacating the premises (to Texas or maybe Tennessee--do you see a trend?),
Megan
P.S. I know I'm being pessimistic. Shut up.
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