I'm writing a good-bye letter as if I were actually preparing to leave. You may find this peculiar, no doubt, but don't we all need to get away sometimes, whether in spirit or in space?
Good bye, Hockessin. Eat my leftover Wawa. Tear up all the soccer fields I ever played on. Make more money. Become more enviable than Greenville, go ahead and try. The smell of mushroom farms' steaming cow manure will always remind me of you. Some days I will remember you sweetly as "Hockers," other days I will mock you and call you "The Village" or the unincorporated census-designated place (thanks wikipedia). Look at you now, you've got a "state of the art" athletic club. I worked there when it opened, ya know. Go to their website, you'll still find a picture of me working in the cafe window. Darling, wasn't I? Well, forget that. I'm done with you. Your young money is old news. I may never be able to afford real estate in 19707. I don't care. I wouldn't want to anyway. I won't get fake boobs and my children will never wear Ralph Lauren bathing suits. And I'm not sure you knew this, but Swift Park still sucks and low-lifes do drugs in there before and after dark. Oh well, at least it has got a set of old-fashioned swings. A date kissed me there once. I've eaten thousands of meals from you, Hockessin. Wawa, Two Cousins, Pat's, Cap's, Pulla's, Five Guys, Friendly's, Kim's Kafe -remember that time I threw up in that parking lot?,...oh and remember that time we had a McDonald's for a hot minute? I remember. Somehow such a forgettable place has given me so many memories. Oh by the way, I'm one of the ones who kept putting the cone on top of the dugout. Bye."Ya'll can have this town and what I don't grab on my way out."
(Luke Bryan lyrics)
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