The West Coast of the East Coast

Hi everybody!

I’m back from a week in Florida. The Queen B and I headed there to see her family, who, due to a case of curious chronological convenience, celebrates her mother’s birthday, her niece’s birthday, her parent’s 40th anniversary, and Father’s Day all within a single 72 hour period.

Florida is a primordial place, the the land that the ┬áJurassic Period forgot. It’s hot, wet, and green, alive with the buzz of iridescent insects and large lizards. Humanity does not control the environment there so much as tenuously exist next to it. Florida gives the impression that, if you turn you back on it for a second, it will consume your backyard and probably eat your dog too.


Life in Florida during the summer is pretty predictable. By 8 in the morning, the temperature is about 90 degrees with 90% humidity; by noon, this increases to 2200 degrees and 319% humidity. Around this time, the connective tissue that holds your skin to your bones liquefies, which goes a long way to explaining why everyone who lives there looks like this:

I'm melting!

They’re are just teenagers in mid-melt.

Nevertheless, despite the crippling heat and abundance of crocodilian critters, the B and I had a good time.

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thirty seven − = twenty seven