I 🖤 Massachusetts. Not the red heart. The black one. Because loving this place is less "warm fuzzy feeling" and more "unresolved trauma you refuse to go to therapy about." You've sat in traffic on a rotary while a guy in a lifted truck merged into you at 60 miles per hour, and you still defended this state to someone from Connecticut that same night. That's the vibe.
Here, winter arrives in October, leaves in May, and sends postcards in June. The roads were designed by cows. People will scream at you for driving too slow and also for driving too fast, in the same intersection, within the same four seconds. And when our sports teams lose, we don't cry, we get mean. Black heart energy. Dark, caffeinated, iced coffee in a blizzard energy.
Built from soft, substantial fabric that holds its shape through laundry cycles and questionable life choices. The kind of piece you grab first, wear constantly, and defend when someone says it looks worn in.
