Weather

I used to be happy. Real happy. I think places change you. Some scientists say that there is this chemical the sun emits, or something like that, and when it's absorbed into your skin and blood stream, you become happier. I don't know, maybe it's true, but I know one thing for sure - there is nothing like sunshine in Charleston, South Carolina.

I used to walk around that city by myself a lot. I used to bike ride a lot too - that's something you can do, when it's nice outside, is sports. There is just something about the way the wind blows, the rustle of the Spanish moss, the orange glow of the setting sun and the way its rays make the water glitter that will never escape my mind. God dammit, if it weren't for South Carolina being such a shit state that it is, I'd never leave.

Just being able to get out, move around, walk down the same pastel streets I always did - dodging tourists, hipsters on bikes, horse drawn carriages and little black kids hawking palmetto roses - I can't do that shit in New York. Or rather, I can't do it on Long Island. There's no where to walk around here. Where am I going to go, the post office? The gas station? Starbucks (but that's an entirely different post in and of itself)?

I like the feeling of humidity and the way it makes my skin glisten with moisture. I like having an excuse to barely wear clothing at all, it's so hot the only thing you can possibly wear is a sun dress and flip flops. Sure, New York gets that kind of weather for, oh say, three months out of twelve.

But Charleston is pure heaven on earth. Where else can you find beach weather in November, alongside fried green tomatoes and boys who pull out your seat at a restaurant (not that I ever DATED those kinds of men...I always seemed to end up with the crazies...but I've seen them down there).

I miss having my fan on and the window open because I was too poor to pay for air conditioning. I'm a believer in all things natural but I can tell you now, Charleston's got the sweetest smelling air around. It's the best right after it rains, when all of the plants and garbage and stuff get pelted with golf ball-sized raindrops and everything kind of just melds together. It's best smelt at 7am on a Sunday, when the sun is rising over the tops of the mansions and you're walking to your job at a church nursery (where you will fantasize about your future southern husband, donning his searsucker suit and stinking of Old Money).

Instead, the only thing that stinks around here is the scent of leather jackets on the subway and the emission of poo-gas from the sewers in the winter time.

I love New York.

But I think I love Charleston more...