Dear New Jersey,

I really do love your state. The shore, the pizza, the metal-culture, the humble-working-class thing, the tacky nouveau-riche suburban thing, the noncommital pitter-patter of Weehawkenites and Hobokeneers, the persistent hum and dark dinge of the tunnels, the hooker motels, the remnants of abandoned hooker motels, the hot gust that greets me upon each entry to one of your PATH stations (a delicate bouquet of dead rats and the shit-panted homeless), the earnest rocker boys in boardwalk cover bands, the sly Jewish boys, the college (and formerly college-affiliated) radio stations, the gambling, the miles of pawnshops fortressing the hub-community of aforementioned gambling, the weird rural parts, the antiquey/nautical southernmost parts, the bizarrely trashy Philly-suburb parts, the faded amusement-resort towns, etc. New Jersey, you are the finest state in all the Union.