Dear Texans, This is a bad place. Of all places to place yourselves, this place is the wrong place. The grass is dirt, the trucks are projections of insecurity, the people are impressively rotund. I’ve spent the week purging the backyard pool of cicadas the size of 40 watt B type light bulbs, and pounding electrolytes so I don’t shrivel up and die under the apocalyptic sun. I’m not adverse to heat. I’d actually rather sweat pools than endure another high north winter, but there’s nothing in Texas worth enduring. Nothing but dirt, highways, and the odd greasy burger joint. Seeing the cousins is always a good time, even when a cicadas flies inside your guitar, and some lady with big hair screams at you for smoking young. I liked walking under the big sky, even if you couldn’t see stars thanks to the neon tragedy that is the greater Irving area. I’m sitting on the floor between the couch and the glass door. My brother brought me water and a slice of Costco cheesecake. Texas sucks big time. You should listen to Rogér Fakhr