Feel for me
As I recall, last year, Marci returned from Boca Raton exhausted. And I thought well, that’s a load of bullshit, boo fucking hoo. Go cry in a corner you tan whore.
Then I went back to my lame ass life to cry on my bed about how the world and Jesus are out to get me and if this isn’t Hell, then I don’t know what is.
While it seems highly incredulous and baffling, it is entirely possible for one to completely tire of South Florida. With the sun and perfect weather and pristine beaches and shit and the looking up in the sky and finding it mystifying that it could be snowing enough somewhere to cause flight cancellations because the Sun is fucking shining.
Marci’s ditched me in Florida, where I am ‘stuck’ until Monday to wallow in my sadness of being ‘trapped’ at a five star resort to tan.
But I swear on my life, if I see one more motherfucking Bentley (not mine) or Ketel One and tonic (most certainly mine) I’m going cry. I’m going to cry the real tears of horror and sadness that one cries upon realizing that she might have to go to the spa. Again.