Dear New Orleans,
It seems like only yesterday we began our brief but fateful courtship, and now here we are—our time together drawing to an end. I'll never forget the two weeks I spent trying to determine what makes a “po' boy” and “po' boy” only to find out it's actually just what you call a sandwich.
It seems like only yesterday I was getting trained in by the locals on my job and I begged them to take me to the bathroom, but they were convinced your gas station toilets would be too gross for me. "I don't care! I've been to Cambodia! I'll go on those bushes! PLEASE!!!" I pleaded with them, but Ken said, “You can't be goin' in those bushes! People be lookin' out they houses and see a white girl comin' out the bushes!? They be like, ‘They done stole that white girl!’’ but they finally took me to the gas station and it wasn't that bad at all.
I'll miss with all of my heart your take-away cups and Verti Marte. My heart will forever mourn the complete and utter lack of boundaries that exist in your French Quarter. And the pork awakening...I mean, I had recently discovered bacon and all, but the pork products you turned me on to? I'll surely never be the same.
But it's over and what can I do or say except that I loved you as best I knew how and you've changed me forever? But, like any other breakup, I think it's best if I make my standard list: a list of your flaws and shortcomings to help me open up my heart to the next city that comes along.
Why it never really would have worked out:
My perpetual hot pink face.
My perpetual hot pink face.
Sidewalk poo.
Words. So many words...words and words and words.
Fire ants.
Grocery bags/bagging. Your lack of paper grocery bags and overall atrocious bagging skills (two limes and a package of sponges double-plastic-bagged!?).
Mardi Gras beads. Namely, people handing me beads and saying, “...and you didn't even have to show your t!t$...” as if all of the sudden it's somehow okay to say the word t!t$ to a lady at the coffee shop!?
Your Zoolander roads (pretty much no such thing as a left-turn in this town).
You call them water bugs. I call them Satan's spawn.
Your potholes.
That's it for now. I'll stop before I say too much and make it worse. I'll think of you often and fondly and sing your praises to all. Please remember me with warmth and tenderness, but most importantly remember me as alabaster (heck, I'll take pasty over fuchsia).
Love always,
Your Girl
You have such a "knowing" look here.
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