Pete and I drove to Cape Cod to see Grandpa. My passenger sunburn is sucking up tinctures and goos. After two hours on the road, I got bored with singing the Supersuckers’ greatest hits at the tops of my lungs so I took pictures of my hair flickering and flying in every direction. Some say they can see the fuuuuuture in my hair, as in a crystal ball or a pack of naked lady playing cards, but my hair is merely a reflection of your subconscious, telling you only what you already know: merciful dog, it is humid.
The Atlantic Ocean has certainly missed me. It was just lying there when Pete and I walked to it, but it perked right up. Oh, the fragrance of the evening mist, the cool of the sand, the wafting aroma of fresh dog poop! The Atlantic stood up and said, Hey darlin’ , how you doin’? I was civil, because you always want to stay friends. But hey, we had a thing, the Atlantic Ocean and I, and of course Pete knows. I keep few secrets, and how could I keep from him my thing with the A. O.? And it’s not as if I look like I did then.
I managed to stay dry.