I'm listening to Lorde sing about a not-so-pretty city. It's reminding me of you, Macomb.
Confined in you are sincerity, love, pride, and a hint of racism. With your ignorance and acceptance, I have been hurt and been loved simultaneously. Out of genuine curiosity, someone have asked me, "do you even understand what we're saying?" I don't know how long I just stared with my mouth slightly open. It's alright though, because all the while, others think English is my native language.
People seem to have a love-hate relationship with your simplicity. Not a single mall, just Wal-Mart. Miles of corn fields until the next small town. Not much to do really, but there's something about board games in basements that keep me coming home every summer.
After weighing the opportunity cost of flight tickets and all the laughs I'd have with my old high school friends, I choose you. I'm coming home.