It would take alot to extract me from my beloved land yacht... but this little shack might do it (as long as I could park the airstream near by.)
Even though I am already mourning the end of ski season (pathetically holding on by shopping for other peoples' gear and encouraging others to buy season passes (Steven's pass should offer me a job)), the indigenous FL white trash in me always secretly longs for the white sand, blue water, salty sea breeze warm days of my youth. Hold the farmer tanned rednecks and tacky condos, please.
Operating on Southern Standard Time. Eating ice cream (fast cos it melts!) Complaining about the heat everyday from April 1st to mid November (it's not the heat, you know, it's the humidity!) Shorts, flip-flops, and iced tea (NOT INSTANT!) I was not bred for this fast-paced rat race that is the Clinical Immunogenetics Lab. Seriously.
I'm supposed to be hosing the salt off of fishing yachts and scrubbing skid marks off of the deck until it's mojito time. Not rocketing down mountain slopes and thrutching my fat ass up rock corners while saving lives and advancing knowledge.
It's just not right.
No comments:
Post a Comment