Look, nobody hates Georgia. You just spend about four months a year actively negotiating with it. The pollen shows up in March and coats your car in a yellow crust thick enough to write your resignation letter in. The humidity hits in May and does not leave until something like October, at which point you are legally a soup. Then there is the traffic, where a twelve mile drive takes fifty minutes and you age out of your own playlist.
And yet. Peaches that ruin you for all other peaches. College football Saturdays with the volume at an illegal level. Late night diner hash browns at 3am. Red clay in your shoes forever. It is a toxic relationship and you are not leaving, so you may as well wear the breakup on your chest. The gnats already know.
Soft, broken in from the first wear, and built to survive the washing machine plus whatever you spilled at the tailgate. Comfortable enough for errands, sturdy enough for a long humid summer of complaining.
