New Hampshire State of

Ah, my homestead. Place, if not of my birth, than of the majority of my rearing.
Here, in your granite embrace was I potty trained. It was your mapley fingers caressing me as I made out in your darkened playgrounds as a frisky teenager. Your salty ocean waters contain more than a little of my pee, and your majestic mountain ranges thrust into the sky as did I when youthfully-​dry humping in your mountainy campgrounds.
Bits of my liver live in memoriam at the Red Arrow, and Manchester’s late Bickfords holds some of my lungs. So very many unlawful clove cigarettes passed my lips there in the early 1990s that I was nearly a goth, but I failed.
It took leaving New Hampshire to appreciate it. Now, living in a state where booze is outlawed in state parks (boo!), I appreciate it even more.
Leave it, and then love it.