Kalah Allen

Well, darling, I’m finally leaving you. It’s not you... it’s me. When we first began, it was mostly alright. Winters were a little dreary, but after breaking up with all your half-assed guys, I romanticized the rain. Shit, if I felt really down, I could drive to a waterfall in 20 minutes and hump a log. And the summers couldn’t be beat. It was never 100 degrees, and if I got to the river early, I could claim a nice spot for myself. Cup & Saucer or Sewickly’s were breakfast. People did yoga for health, not for show. Not for dates. Tinder was something you brought with you camping, ’cause you’d never be able to get a fire lit without it. People were never super open, let alone friendly, but you didn’t need invitations to make yourself at home. Now it’s Nazis, liberals, gentrification, and traffic. You’re spent. You care more about dogs than you do about people, and you fucking do-gooders will never get a thing done. So, while in line at Salt & Straw, don’t look for me, ’cause I’m gone. I’m over it. And over you.—Anonymous