New Jersey is Perfect

A brief romantic ode to the Garden State

Let me tell you why I’m like this. If you don’t know what I mean, that’s fine — you don’t know me, and I don’t expect you ever will. But I know me, and I know what I’m like, and now you’re going to know, a little bit, kinda. This is a story about a state the size of a postage stamp, wedged between New York, Pennsylvania, whatever’s south of Cape May, and the beautiful goddamn Atlantic Fucking Ocean. This is a story about New Jersey and me, and maybe you, if you’re lucky enough to be from here, too.

Let us begin in the beginning. Science teaches us that Prometheus sculpted the first humans from clay and the sacred spit of Zeus. He so loved his creations that he stole fire from the gods to give to people so that they could thrive. The gods were angry, and frightened, because suddenly here were puny but oddly powerful creatures who were terrified of the Olympian deities but who could, if they chose, take this collective fear and love and respect away, rendering the gods impotent, pointless, irrelevant. To the gods went the glory, but only so long as the humans gave a shit. Eventually, the humans stopped worshipping them, and their powers faded.