I’ve got as many jokes for Florida as the next kid, but as long as I avoid a tourist trap I’m OK. I’m also convinced the humidity is to blame for half the meth and bath salt-fueled CVS rages that pop up at the end of every buzzfeed article–and my hair is natural. Me no llamo shrinkage.
Luckily, it’s long enough for a sloppy puff, cause I’m headed out again. I’ll be with family, with nephews, and I love rough and tumble boys. No big plans, no major sightseeing, just a pool and a beach and floaties and a grill. No alarm clocks. No deadlines, except the fake ones I make up for myself to write. I may turn off those as well. Ambrosia.
Florida wasn’t meant to be part of the travelogue, but not many of these destinations were. Call it happenstance, good timing, serendipity… but I’m taking every break from life I’m offered. Let those sky miles do what they do and get me outta Brooklyn.
The New Yorker in me wants to note an upcoming instagram full of strip malls, plastic surgery clinics, and swamp ass. But I’m working on me, so I’ll discount all those things. Today I believe it’ll be melanin blessed, water kissed, and sand polished.
I’m black, I’m solo, and my next stop is the wackadoo Sunshine State. See ya there.