I am leaving Florida tomorrow, and I’m gonna miiiiiiis it. 

On the other hand, I am kind of excited to start dressing up again (as in, anything that’s not my trendy aquamarine house shorts that don’t pass a high school dress code, and a ripped T-shirt).

But I’m still gonna miss it. 

On the third hand, here’s Betty White, and she’s just trying not to die. 

DISNEY WORLD IS COOL, THAT’S WHAT. 

If you asked me what happened in the last five days, all I would be able to tell you is Rain. Rain has been dripping off of thick, old-teddy-bear-stuffing grey of the clouds for as far back as I can remember now. And trust me, I don’t remember much. 

No lightning. No thunder. 

Just that sound of water hitting the window sill and crawling down the sides of the house in little neat lines of sweat. I am tired out of my wits, but it’s OK, because I am never really awake around here. 

A mosquito flies around my bed. My crumpled white sanitary sheets. They used to be crisp. I need to change them soon. I grab the mosquito in my hand. He’s probably dead. No yet, but he’s as good as dead at this point anyway. What’s up, Kant. 

It gets bad here. Real fucken bad sometimes. But then I think of having to come back and my fingers curl and lock up. My spine bends. That’s what my Hate looks like. All wide-eyed and crazy like that. Ruthless and blood thirsty like that. So I play with the hand I’m dealt anyway. I might as well humor Fate for now. And my Mother.

The reports are lying around, untouched. I have so much shit to do, it’s daunting. The deck is quarter inked and it makes me want to cry. So much effort making my own fortune. So much sweat and tears around it. My little trap door into Escape Reality world isn’t working very well these days, it’s become weary and kind of too fake. 

But I suppose none of this is really fucken reality. I am living a real non-life. I am like an animal in the zoo. All caged up and controlled. But I’ve been brought into captivity at young age, and all memories of freedom come more like nightmares now. That’s why I can’t make any fucken decisions. I plan trips and never go. I go through apartment listings and just look at the furniture. Some houses are more sexually creative than others. 

Someone smarter than me would probably apply themselves to the betterment of the fucken society. But not me, no sir, not me. I’ll just sit here and listen to rain, thanks very much. What kind of life is this, anyway?

How does it feel

To be lounging in the sun

Without a care in the world

With but a drink in hand

How does it feel

Ms. Sunshine?

I used to say I wouldn’t compromise

In the lazy afternoons

Before I realized a thing or two.

And now someone gets my kicks for me

And blows kisses to collapsing bridges

For me, from the knee-high plane

I’m just a rolling stone

I am meant to roll on

But I am stuck in the shallow waters here

Dried out by the 

Big orange

In the sky.

So we play Napoleon

But his suit is too short

And we don’t like ponies

We get so bored. 

And what’s worse

Someone somewhere

Could have believed us.

Tanning my biceps, thinking about how much ass I am going to kick in the fall. 

There is a certain sadness for me, here, in Florida. I wake up to someone screaming just outside my doors, which do not close. Every morning I wake up. 

I eat something tasteless, more or less. There is a certain hopelessness in my mother. 

I go on the porch where the branches are overtaking the lanai and I listen to the birds sing. All sorts of birds, all sorts of songs, woodpeckers, even. 

I sit there with my laptop open and I force myself to do some sort of work. I listen to music. I go to the gym when it is time to go. I drink coffee and Gatorate and local citrus juices. I take off my clothes and tan when the sun is out. 

But there is certain sadness and heaviness in all I do, on the outside. On the inside I am crumbling and boiling and burning, and breaking and rebuilding. 

I am alone here. Marinating in something entirely artificial. Everything I do is not out of necessity, but rather to appear as if I have something to do.

And I know it’s all a matter of shaking this off me. I think. 

It’s been raining and raining and raining on and off today. Rain here has a special smell, of dirt and age. It’s old rain. I sit on the porch and the rain sifts through the lanai and I can see the wall of mist in front of me. This rain. It falls and bubbles form on the little pond and disturb the fish. The worms and rain disturb the fish. Otherwise, I imagine they are perfectly content. And so am I.

Here, it is always warm. Hot, even. And humid. The fans are always on, there is a calm noise overhead, always a hum. It’s like a hospital. There aren’t even any bugs in the house, just huge spiders, occasionally, and some snakes. But the rugs are rotting.

You happened. You became the newest, sweetest downfall, another forbidden fruit. But how simple is this? You happened. I was in love with you, I think, I am quite certain. And you happened. And that morning happened. And later you told me,

“I’ll probably never be this happy again.”

But it’s warm here. Hot, even. You crawl through my mind like an insect. Or a worm, even. Worms like decay. I don’t like to think that my mind is decaying. It’s just malfunctioning. It’s stuck running a loop, like an old movie projector, and you’re on the screen. And I have my own soundtrack, it sounds like this:

 “He doesn’t love me”

and it’s set on repeat too. All this to the smell of rotting rugs.

I tell myself, it’s going to get better, and of course, it will, no violence, of course. I have so much time here, and nothing to do but perfect myself, for me, I tell others, for you, I tell myself. And so I will be back and there will be cold. I will perm my hair and the curls will frame my flushed cheeks and maybe I’ll even have tears in my eyes, or maybe I won’t, and I’ll just brush the hair out of my eyes with my gloved hand and smile at you faintly and dissolve into the cold dark streets of my loathed city.

On the other hand, I don’t even have to come back. I could stay here, where it is hot, and let that heat drive the cold from my bones and fill me entirely, however long that takes. I’ll stay here and still achieve everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ll go on proving how strong I can be. I’ll go on, covering my wounds with band-aids made of diplomas, certificates and bank notes. And that will be fine, because I will have a place in the world, and no one but me has to know how superficial it is.

I only know that I cannot take another drunken confession. I cannot take another compliment from you. I do not need you to sing Neil Young to me. You’re far too old for that, and anyway, I don’t even know who that is. I really did love you. And still do, the way I always love ghosts after sunrise, or shadows when the sun sets.

When the rugs are rotting, you have to replace them eventually. And the longer you take, the more damage you cause. Except my heart isn’t a rug. The same principle applies, however. 

I am in serious need of something to do here for 4 months. Help?

Where can I run off to?

Toronto? To see the successful intern and eat curry off of his dick

Ottawa? To see the desperate puppy, his macho douchebag friend and the naughty religious boy

Quebec City? To see the city

Florida? To tan and get STIs

Ukraine? To drink and get STIs and good coffee

Italy? To spend all my money and walk a lot (again)

New York? To eat a hot dog on a bench because I got mugged and only had the 5 bucks in my pocket

Cuba? To swim and engage in mutual rum body lick-offs

Alternative universe? To get higher and see things from a different perspective, flyin out of my window

I am just sitting here, at work, listening to my pocket watch tick and thinking about the Matt I met on the plane last night, and how much more attractive he is sitting down than standing up. He could almost be my husband. I like Americans. So…why am I not in Florida right now? On my deck? With my wine glass of grapefruit juice?

In irrelevant news, need new sheets, these one still smell like his cologne. Urgh. I hate lingering smells.

1. This is oh so very nice. The birds are flipping out everywhere. There are 50-foot trees around the house (including palm trees). There are fishies in the little pond on the giant deck. It’s warm enough to be sitting in a t-shirt. 
2. Biology studying…well, obviously Tumblr. But technically, it’s biology. To which the environment is conducive.
3. This neighborhood looks frozen in time. Like a magical forest from a Brothers Grimm tale. See badly taken photo below. I simply can’t be bothered. 
4. The only thing on everybody’s mind is food and Gators. 
5. People here are way weird. Waaay weird (marriage proposals, anyone?). And everything is done in sloooooow motion. 
6. My life in Montreal seems so distant and hectic and gross and stupid. It’s so nice here. So stupid there. I’m getting myself into serious crap there. Getting lots of love here. And swag. New laptop? Hooolla
7. See, I’ve adopted the local creole (see #6), m’am. 
8. I forget what snow feels like. Me want to stay here, no?