“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Saturday, September 18, 2004

Beach Trip: Day Eight

I awoke this morning to an unpleasant reality.

Well, in this little world I've created and live in ALL reality is fairly unpleasant, but the more-than-usual unpleasantness was the fact that this was my last day at the beach.

So that sucked.

The day itself was a good one though. I couldn't go into the ocean further than mid-shin as the freaking hurricane was bringing in some wicked surf, so we spent most of the day in the pool and the hot tub watching birds fly by sideways.

It was the damndest thing.

They were pointed one way, flapping to beat all hell, but they were going straight left.

And we weren't even on anything.

I double checked.

Anyways, Tomorrow (or later today rather), we head for Brian's place in Harrisonburg Virginia where I'll spend a fun-filled week telling his roommates and co-workers embarrasing stories from when we were in high school.

After that I'm sure I'll have to return to that festering hellpit I call home, but I'll carry with me some fond memories.

The mile-long ethnic slur called "Pedro Land" we drove through on the way here. Really, you have no idea. It's a crime that this place isn't fully doumented in pictures online somewhere.

Don't worry, I'll try to get pictures on the drive back.

There was the hot Jamacian grandmother. I'd like to take her out for a night of passionate lovemaking after which we'd lay under the stars and watch that old Jamacian moon.

Why that old Jamacian would be mooning us I have no idea.

There was the time I faked drowning so I could get mouth to mouth from the cute lifeguard.

Boy, was that guy pissed.

I was aiming for the cute blonde girl. Sometimes you roll the dice, sometimes you crap out.

And I can't forget the Ron Jon's restaurant we ordered takeout from. The food was mediocre and overpriced, the service sucked, but what made them memorable was the fact that they had cigarettes on the menu.

That's right, you could order CIGARETTES on the takeout menu.

I think that's the surest sign we could have asked for that we were in the south. However, to prove we were still in America, the fucking menu had the fucking SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING ON IT.

So that's it for now. I'll post more from Brian's place tomorrow.


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