New Jersey Girl, New Jersey Girl,
C’mon and rock my world.
New Jersey Girl, New Jersey Girl,
I wanna love you.
New Jersey Girl, New Jersey Girl,
With your crazy fucked up hair,
New Jersey Girl, New Jersey Girl,
Yer wicked awesome!
– Nerf Herder

The way people tell it seeing a ex-girlfriend is generally short hand for most gut wrenching, soul crushing, manhood smooshing experience in the world. Throw in a new boyfriend and you might as well take off your testicles and make a nice smoothie out of them, just to cut out the middle man.

Still, my latest run-in was free of drama, insanity, or esteem destruction. I blame this mostly on her being a classy bitch, and he being a pretty slick dude himself, so…well…props to you both. In fact, there was only one moment where a large lunchlady sized scoop of discomfort wandered into the conversation. It was just one moment, but as far as I was concerned it was a sin on par with learning the true name of God, and then using it with a made up quote to promote Carrot Top’s newest movie project.

She made fun of New York.

I gave her some good glower, but thanks to my drunken state, my rapier wit produced only the following : “Yeah, well…jerbaderflannin…” Then I put my head on the table because it was cold and nice, and when I woke up tweleve hours later I was in a bathtub in Davenport with a hole where my kidney should be, but that’s beside the point.

I’ve been to dozens of cities in the last few years, and every time, when I come home, cruise over the BQE and take in the skyline, I take in deep breath of equal parts relief and awe. Like you do. There is no place in this world I’d rather do my standard diddling around than these five boroughs. Simply put, I love this town, and its defence, more than anything, apparently, is a sore spot with me.

So, why? Why? WHY! Why is it that every event, every holiday, and almost every party I go to is in fucking Jersey?

Standing in front of that ticket machine at the Path Station at Sixth Ave, taking the eighty million Sacagawea