I 🖤 Oregon. Not the red heart. The black one. Because loving this place means eight straight months of drizzle, a vitamin D deficiency your doctor has stopped mentioning, and a smug sense of superiority about coffee that you absolutely cannot justify to outsiders. It's a love forged in moss. It's seasonal affective disorder with a personality.
This is for the people who pump their own gas now and still feel weird about it, who have strong opinions on which food cart pod peaked, who own four rain jackets and no umbrella because umbrellas are for tourists. The black heart says: yes, I chose this. Yes, it rained on my birthday. Yes, I'd do it again. Also, it's secretly 103 degrees in August and nobody has air conditioning, so good luck out there.
Soft, substantial, and built to survive a damp commute and roughly nine hundred wash cycles. The kind of piece you grab without thinking, then wear until someone close to you stages an intervention.
