I 🖤 Florida. Not a red heart. A black one. Because loving this state is less a romance and more a hostage situation with great weather eleven months a year and one month of pure atmospheric violence. You love it the way you love a buddy who's been arrested in a swamp: genuinely, but with a little fear.
This is for anyone who's merged onto a highway at 95 miles an hour behind a pickup hauling a boat, who's seen a reptile in a retention pond and just kept walking, who considers a gas station sandwich fine dining and humidity a personality trait. The heart is black because the sun bleached everything else out, including your will to argue about it. You're not leaving. You know you're not leaving.
Soft, broken-in fabric that holds up through sweat, salt air, and the questionable decisions that follow both. Stitching that survives the wash, a fit that doesn't cling when the air turns to soup, and color that won't quit after one afternoon outside.
