Not a red heart. Not love. A light blue heart, which is the universal symbol for "we're good, but don't get weird about it." That's New Jersey in one little pixelated organ. You don't love it. You simply accept that you've eaten disco fries at 2am in a vinyl booth, you've argued about what to call the breakfast meat, and you've genuinely gotten mildly emotional about someone else pumping your gas for you.
This is for the people who complain about the turnpike for forty minutes and then defend it to anyone from out of state. The jughandles. The traffic circles designed by a guy with a grudge. The shore in July, the swamp smell in August, and the diners that outlive every relationship you've ever had. Platonic affection, baby. Lukewarm and loyal.
Soft, broken in from the first wear, and built to survive the washing machine more times than it should. The kind of thing you grab without thinking and end up wearing three days a week.
