Yesterday I decided I don't want to live in a place where you can't buy seltzer at the gas station. This is the same place where Italian soda's ingredients are Sprite and syrup, where the iced coffee is made by pouring standard brewed hot House blend over ice, and the three coffee shops in town order their pastries from the Safeway (and they don't serve croissants). Salads are 75 percent meat and creamy dressing.
I have been spoiled rotten by the accoutrements of the third wave and no amount of fresh air, or wildlife, or pro-life christian conservatism can provide the comfort I get from a carefully made pour over and a print copy of the Sunday New York Times.
(This cup is completely empty)