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I heart Sydney.

Relationships are a funny thing.  I mean, you can give your heart so completely and utterly to your beloved, and then – BAM – you spent a weekend with someone else and suddenly you start imaginimg your life with another, and it kind of scares you a little bit, right?  Because holy sweet baby cheese balls maybe, just maybe, you could be the cheating type.

Ladies and gees, I’m a Melbourne girl.  Through and through.  I couldn’t imagine not having so-good-I-take-it-for-granted-because-I’m-a-jerk-like-that coffee at my fingertips and cool little bars and that four seasons in one day rubbish that only M-Town can getting away with pulling because he’s just so freaking adorable.  I’d miss the hook turns and the trams and the football and the shopping and the fact that you don’t need to contort your body into something resembling a child’s t-shirt and some ankle busting heels just to enjoy a few Sunday arvo beers.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wasn’t attracted to Sydney.  We flirt.  Alot.  We’re more than just friends, and yes, Melbourne, you should be worried.

Why?  Well, because Sydney town, treats me gooooood.

The weather.  Look Melbourne, I feel like we’ve hit that point.  Complacency.  I mean, you’ve stopped making an effort, and I’m not saying that I expect you to rise to the occasion every time, but sheesh – I shave my legs and put on makeup, and you keep promising me 27 degrees and delivering 18 and showers.  It’s the weather equivalent of falling asleep watching the footy on date night, yunno??

The beaches.  Seriously St Kilda.  LIFT YOUR GAME.  That’s not how you beach.  THIS is how you beach.

The food.  Sydney have perfected the fine art of mixing wank super foods into our regular day life with little fanfare and even less judgement, and so I can enjoy my chia/kale/coconut water/activated almonds smoothie without a hint of an eyebrow lift from some judgy-judgy barista.  (I mean, WHY PUT IT ON THE MENU IF YOU DON’T WANT ME TO ORDER IT, ST ALI?!?)

The vibe.  I’m not nearly tanned or toned enough to be a Bondi babe.  The Bondi to Bronte run is usually one of my quickest of the week, just because I’m gunning it outta that self esteem destroying strip that is the Bondi Foreshore, as quick as my current season Flyknit Lunar 2’s will let me.  But Bronte?  Now that’s a suburb that just gets me.  There’s not a single cafe that doesn’t have a cute little window seat to while away the Sunday sun with a coffee/cider/both with a glossy mag and they’ll probs let your pooch in as well.

I don’t think I’ve got it in me to be a one town kinda girl…

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