Once upon a time, there was a writer, disillusioned and ill-mannered, who stumbled into College Town with naught but a grumbling in the stomach and a hankering for Chipotle. There they came across a building, stately and sure, with lime-green lighting to accentuate its haed shoppiness. It wasn’t much with a cursory glance, but little did they know that when they passed the street-facing storefront, it would bring them the graetest possible joy and inspiration.
That was you and I once. I basked in your sickly glow to and from the Dollar Tree, and you shone back at me with pride. The pride, I felt, may have been unwarranted, given that your signage was woefully misspelled, but it began to grow on me. I wasn’t as interested in the correctly-spelled side of you. I loved you for all of your flaws (just the one). But then, one day, all the letters fell into place — correctly.
Oh, my darling. How they have massacred you. They have torn you apart and put you back together, but nothing will ever be how it once was. Me, trundling by you in the haet and swaet of a post-9-to-5 commute. You, a fucked-up misspelled storefront sign.
Maybe I only valued you for the facade you displayed. Maybe I messed up by not valuing your insides more. Maybe I should start buying weed. No matter what I do, though, it won’t bring you back. You will stay in my haert as “Raw Laef” forever, and you have changed my world.
