By Rafael J.
Dear Albany,
I wish I could actually like you more. Or maybe I wish I could get away from you. I’m not really sure.
The main problem is that you’re everything I associate with a annoying person. You’re a judgment sitting on a high horse, and you’re incredibly annoying. Always talking about people who do or don’t belong, as if you can tell other people what they should be doing, how they should be acting. And if you think people don’t belong, you pressure them out, you threaten them, and you hurt them, in the most dishonest and cruel ways.
Maybe everyone hates the town that had their high school in it, I’m sure. Like, I have no idea, but for me there’s a special place in my heart for Albany.
Thing is, so many of my friends live there. It’s hard to hate a place you associate with your friends, and I did go to high school with these people. In order for me to fully be honest with you, I need to admit the fact that I love you also. I find myself in your cold embrace so often; I’ve grown used it. You’re like a dove sitting on a perch, high above the rest of us, judgment and bird shit in one small, convenient package. You’re that one kid in high school that everyone finds themselves desperate to impress, despite their constant cynicism and cruelty. The meaner they are, the more everyone wants them to like them. I find myself desperate for your approval despite your constant judgment and the way you make me feel subpar.
There’s no two ways about it. Part of me will always want your approval and love. Maybe that part of me will forever be denied, or perhaps some day far in the future, I will win what I’ve always wanted. Your attention. Your gratifying praise.
But most of me is mature enough to known that not all of you can love me. And that I, deep down, really shouldn’t care.
THE Holy Hand Grenade!
Regards,
Rafael