My Herrimaphobia is entirely rational. I spent a week in Herriman one day last month. Actually, I spent three weeks there on three separate days, requiring progressively more therapy. The first time, after driving around aimlessly and calling the woman once again, I was finally told, "Oh, did I say I lived on X street? I meant Y."
On the second occasion, I talked VOU2 into joining me to see some furniture advertised on Craigslist. The conversation -- well, more like a monologue -- on that delightful trip went something like this, with certain words replaced for tender eyes:
"Where are we? . . . This place is a hole. . . . Are we still in Herriman? . . . It's not on my GPS. . . . What kind of idiot runs an ad on Craigslist for Helliman and doesn't put the coordinate? . . . Whoever laid out these streets was obviously drunk. This place is a [disappointing,] [confusing] [maze]! . . . I now hate this man, and I hate Herriman."
It is a known fact that there is something wrong with everyone who voluntarily lives or drives in Herriman. This new temple is too close. Please move it.