Steven Weissman

When I first met you 20 years ago, I wasn't sure what to think. You were quirky and a little unkempt, and your beauty was unconventional. But I fell in love anyway. Some folks complained about your California friends, but you all had a nice laid-back West Coast mentality. You were artistic and freaky, and your social activism made sense. You had a little cash, but weren't showy like your sister across the water and weren't slumming like your cousin down south. But things started to change. You starting getting more money and hanging out with your Midwestern friends. The freaky artist was disappearing, and your social activism became more about defending the tribe than helping people. You became more concerned about money and how you looked, so much so that you started changing your looks and resembling your soulless sister across the water. The change was so gradual and incremental, I found myself justifying each little death of our relationship. I began looking at others and realizing they were no different from you or worse. I was depressed and miserable, and I believed I was going to end up dying unhappy with you. One day, I realized the one I truly loved was right under my nose. I hope you never find her and ruin her, too. I am leaving you for her. Goodbye, Seattle. P.S. I'm keeping the KCMU mug.



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