(The Reformation dress, Fiorentini & Baker boots)
Crossing the border into California was exciting the way things are when they’re mostly the same afterwards, but you feel slightly warm and alive because you were born there and the sign is so ’70s and screaming can be exhilarating in small spaces. Even if you’re with the only person whose decibel level you don’t think you will ever match (I’m talking about me, and Bryan, and this pointless situation generalization ends here). I’m wearing my default Road Things dress because the world is hot and it just barely passes as enough material to be socially acceptable and maybe I wore it for every 8am crappy coffee lobby trip too. Not to get all mawkish on you cause I would hope that you hate that, but my qualifiers are falling apart and it feels nice.
It’s perfect, dream-like here. I forgot, I guess. Walking around town in the late afternoon together was like everything good about summer camp pleasantly bashing you in the face every three seconds, so we mourned the day ending as it was ending. But Bryan is now asking questions like “is Mount Rushmore real?” so I think we’re starting to plan our next adventure.
I’m this color now, Utah.
Dedicated to everyone that’s annoyed at me for one-photo posts and some guy on Twitter who ends all of his sentences with “trees”, trees.