Living in New Jersey, on the boarder of Asshole and Unproductive, I can hear the quiet hum of suburbia. Strangely enough, I like it. Sometimes I forget how beautiful this town can be when you look past the clutter of lacrosse sticks and beer cans. It’s easy to feel like you’re drowning in all of it. It’s easy to bury your head in million dollar homes and the dreams your parents forgot about in order to buy them. It’s easy to hate this place. But it’s worth it when you remember how gorgeous the asphalt looks in August and how many birthday wishes came true during recess when you were busy catching butterflies.

“You’ll never escape this place,” they tell me. I know it’s true. Thirteen years is too long to stay anywhere, but I’ve done it. I’ve endured the green and gold walls in this town along with seventy-one girls…seventy-one women. Somehow, I’ll miss it. I already do sometimes. I’ll miss the comfort in daydreaming about a life far away from a town much too small for me. I’ll miss the smiles and love that interrupted so many conversations. I’ll miss the friends that I loved far too late, sitting on cars outside of Magic Fountain watching our memories in light up sneakers. At the speed we’ve been going, we just may escape the fears.