“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

Friday, September 17, 2004

Beach Trip: Day Seven

It was pretty damn hard to crawl out of bed today.

I guess those margaritas were a little stronger than I thought.

Damn Jimmy Buffet.

Of course it might also be a contributing factor that I've done more shit this week doing nothing than I do in a month back home doing nothing.

Not that I'm complaining mind you.

Quite the contrary.

There's a reason why I've written about nothing but going to the beach and going out to eat this week. It's because that's all we've fucking done.

And it's been kicking our asses.

Of course, we're the idiots that keep going out in the ocean with a fucking hurricane coming.

And not just any hurricane; hurricane Ivan. A manly sounding storm. The last hurricane was named Frances.

That's right.

Hurricane Frances.

How do you name a hurricane Frances? The very name says "Take my lunch money but don't hurt me!"

Keep your wussy-ass storm names. If it's gonna knock over all of my shit it better have a tough goddamn name.

Where's hurricane Vlad? How about Sherman? And where the fuck is hurricane Ghengis?

So between getting pounded into the sand by the waves, coming up with humorous blog posts, and hanging out in some pretty cool eateries/drinking establishments, we've done absolutely fuck-all.

I, of course, have put infinite time and study into doing nothing, (it's a subtle art), but it might be wearing on Brian. He keeps talking about "when the vacation is over" and "going back home".

If he keeps up that talk I may have to kill him.

That's no fit way for a pirate to talk.



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