Today (Friday) is my Saturday. I had every intention of waking up early, straightening up my room and then heading to waterfront to sit for hours, read and write poetry. Instead, I woke way too early, snagged one of my roommates energy drinks, and nodded off as I played match after match of “Friday the 13th: The Game,”–my latest addiction. After a while, I looked outside, saw that it definitely was not waterfront weather and figured I would run to Fred Meyers, replace my roommates stolen energy drink and peanut butter (from the night before), and find something to get into.
I made it to Fred Meyers and halfway home before I decided to stop at the local coffeehouse and hide from the rain. After a very successful week of not buying cigarettes, I broke down and bought a pack and I find myself now drinking coffee and chain smoking under an umbrella on the porch of the coffeehouse staring at the gray sky and passing traffic. I thought to myself that there is something magical about the of gray and wet and petrichor. Something that is only magical if you are from Oregon. And then some dickhead on a “fixie” steps out of the coffeehouse, bicycle and all, and into my Oregon morning talking loudly on his iPhone X about how his stock in a local developer plummets every winter thanks to the shitty weather which only reflects the local’s shitty attitude.
I picture that scene from 300 where the protagonist kicks the guy into the pit screaming “THIS IS SPARTA!” Except I find myself wanting to kick some mustachioed California hipster from atop Multnomah Falls, as he complains about the weather–falling to his death.
THIS IS OREGON.