I 👋 Georgia. Not love. Not heart. A wave. As in the one you throw out the driver's side window as you cross into Alabama with the AC blasting and a half eaten Chick-fil-A biscuit in the cupholder. It is the universal sign for "we had a time, but I am out."
Look, Georgia is a lot. The humidity hits like a wet mattress from April to October. The pollen turns your black car yellow and your sinuses into a crime scene. 285 is less a highway and more a group project nobody finished. And if your team is not barking, you will hear about it every Saturday from September through January. So yeah, you wave. Lovingly. Fondly. From a moving vehicle.
Cut for humans who actually move around, with a soft, broken in feel that gets better every wash instead of turning into a stiff little cardboard box. Holds its shape, holds its color, holds up to whatever the weather is doing that particular hour.
