Welcome to "I Really Hate Miami"

Welcome. Before we get started, I'd like to clarify something. My blog's title, claiming that I hate Miami, is not sarcastic. I truly do. I was born in this sweaty armpit of a city, and I have lived here for virtually my whole life. Time and time again, my heart will fill with hope that perhaps it isn't so bad here, only to be squashed in the clamp-like grasp of this greater metropolitan area's evil spirit, leaving my abused organ bleeding on the ground like a kindergärtner's unsuccessful attempt at filling a water balloon. These instances usually lead me to question whether or not this city should even exist, and after much pondering, my conclusive answer to this quandary is always no.  My main source of solace in regards to this glaring problem is that our 305 (and sometimes 786) area code is so close to sea level, that it will eventually be swallowed whole by the steaming hot, ice-cap drinking oceans of the earth. Fingers crossed.

I normally would not consider my disdain for this geographical pimple to be blog-worthy, but today, the first of June, 2009, was the last straw. I was riding to class on my bicycle, when I was guerrilla attacked by a thunderstorm. As to be expected, the weather was gorgeous before and after my half hour commute. As I sit soaked from collar to sock, the sky is blue, and the clouds are sighing gently across the sky, displaying obvious satisfaction in their job well done; thoroughly shitting upon one of their favorite targets. However, fifteen minutes earlier I was being deprived of any one dry spot on my body by rain and the inconsiderate splash of an 8th street driver, causing me to shake my fists at the nearest Pollo Tropical and cry, "I really hate Miami"!