It’s not you, it’s me

I found this ‘Heart in Oregon’ sticker today while packing. I bought it weeks after moving here with the intention of putting it on the rear window of my car just to show everyone how not insecure I was about being an outsider. Since I still had Florida plates, it sat unpeeled in my nightstand for months because I didn’t want to illicit any ‘wait a minute’ epiphanies from cops who could pull me over for not registering the car 30 days after relocating.

Eventually, I registered with the state of Oregon. The plates came in the mail a few days ago, nearly hours after making the decision to leave.

I’m still debating whether I should use the sticker or put it in my ‘what could’ve been’ box along with my unsent letters to Tucker Carlson and a VHS tape in which I perform the voices of a googly eyed banana and a unibrowed jar of Pace Picante Sauce in order to explain the dangers of drunk driving. It seems hypocritical to claim that my heart is in a place where I lived for less time than the duration of Freaks and Geeks, but in a lot of ways, it’s accurate. Oregon represents the first time I drove across the U.S. as an adult, the first time I irresponsibly blew a significant amount of money to go overseas, and the first time I realized that people will put venison in anything.

I hope we can be together sometime in the future, Oregon. Just know that I’ll always remember you for your fondness of seasoned tater tots, more breweries than I’ve had orgasms, and the abundance of unkempt but practical facial hair.

growing up