I come from Memphis, Memphis, TN, and it shames me to say, I love that shabby, backwater town. Twice it’s been named “Murder Capital of America." The crime rate, at times, surpasses Chicago’s, but I still love that city the way you love someone you can’t say you like. A brother, perhaps, or maybe a cousin. Someone you love just because they are blood.
The way I feel about my hometown, my “relationship” with it, is practically the same as I have with my father. My dad loves me because I’m his daughter. I love him because he’s my dad. And because someone has to. He’s a moody, rigid and ill-tempered person, who operates, emotionally, on a five-year old’s level. It pains me to say that I’m much the same way; the difference is, I know it. I own it.
There are moments we walk in the brightest sunlight, when all points converge in a manner sublime. Then there are times when the moon and the stars refuse to align, and those moments haunt you
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