Kalah Allen

I know I just moved here, and we're still getting to know each other, and I think the relationship's going really well. There's one thing: Portland, you do not know how to drive. I know, you're gonna say I'm from the Midwest, it's different there—and it is. Like how people actually go at or above the speed limit. And I know you're going to say it's cute when you stop on a through street to let someone out from a side street, but I'm going to say, as the guy who's smacking into your rear bumper because you stopped short, that it's actually just destructively compassionate. It doesn't help that anywhere in the middle of a block a pedestrian feels like crossing, you'll gladly wait for them while I'm late again behind you. Do that in any other city in America and you'll be strained through the grill of a Chrysler 300. Oh, and if I have to use my horn, don't look at me in like I recruited your daughter into the pornography industry. I really do love ya, Portland—your pubs, your coffee shops, your hour and a half to the coast, your Mount Hood. Just learn how to drive, goddammit.—Anonymous