CT Blue

I’m feeling a bit down lately. It was Mitt that made me feel this way, sort of empty and dissatisfied.

It all started when I saw him deliver this heartfelt paean to the joy he feels when he returns to his native earth.

It’s so terribly unfair that the press and much of the blogosphere has seen fit to concentrate on his wife’s two Cadillacs, rather than the pain and heartache he, and she, must feel when they are forced to use those Detroit made Cadillacs near their modest homes in New Hampshire, California and those other locations to which they have been most cruelly exiled.

For my part, I look around me and I share Mitt’s pain, for the blinders have fallen from my eyes, and now I can truly see. What do I see? I see that the trees are all the wrong height. I’m not sure if they’re too tall or too short, but that’s not the point. And don’t get me started on the roads. I now know that our stunted and/or overgrown trees and crooked roads are among the many reasons why I can never be truly happy here in New England. And this realization has led to even more revelations. The grass here is too high, the water finds a level too low, the sun rises too early, and the young maidens cheeks are not appled enough.

But like Mitt, I must soldier on. Not for me the joy of living where the trees are just the right height, the roads go places, and all other things have achieved the golden mean. Like Mitt, for reasons beyond my ken, I will never know the joy of living in Detroit.