After having been away from the blog for the better part of the summer and the entire start of fall, I am back to, naturally, complain. What has dragged me back into the blogosphere? Destination weddings. Fucking destination weddings. Specifically, a brother’s wedding I can’t miss, being held for some unfathomable reason not in the moderately difficult to access but cheap once you’re there small town both families are from, but rather on an island in the Gulf of Mexico about halfway down America’s Wang.
Oh, I’m sure it will be lovely, being on a beach and all, but—but—it will be in August. In Florida. In fucking August, in fucking Florida. My brother wants a bachelor party consisting of two days of fishing in the Everglades. Because nobody lives in the vicinity other than my other brother and their psychotic mother (they’re half brothers to me, actually, via Dad), the remaining family members are starting to hash out which $1,200-a-week beachfront cottages to rent. I’m looking around for the nearest defibrillator.
The upside? Since it will be August, in Florida, I will be at very little risk of freezing to death when I’m sleeping under a bridge. Besides, I hear manatees like to cuddle and are hardly ever rabid.