Beach, Beach, Beach. This is what I’m supposed to do in Miami right?
Note to 30-year-old future self: the skin cancer is all your fault.
Beach, Beach, Beach. This is what I’m supposed to do in Miami right?
Note to 30-year-old future self: the skin cancer is all your fault.
My favorite pair of flip flops broke today. Crap.
In other news, the Keys were pretty…
I’m facing some hardcore resistance writing my last history paper. It needs to be all of three pages. I’ve done all the research. I’ve read over 300 pages for this thing. I’m so just so incredibly bored with the subject that I can’t stop whining about not writing and just write it because I don’t want to write it.
And well, I need to. The FTS (F-this-S) hormones have arrived. They need to go away for the 45-or-so-minutes this thing will take to write.
I even entertained the idea of not writing the paper for a while, but when I mentioned this to Miss Pao she threw a fit. Seriously. Stomping and all.
She might stab me if I don’t turn it in.
Today Matt and I went to the mangrove swamp.
The swamp. I ran face-first into a web with a huge-huge spider up in there yonder.
We were stalked by the pelican with the greedy eyes.
I don’t trap hermit crabs in random Heineken bottles…but someone does.
I swam in a mangrove swamp today. There are a lot of glass shards and budlight cans, but it’s still a beautiful place to read and swim.
When I sat still long enough in the water puffer fish would swim around me.
Weekend boaters kept docking on the little sand bank I was on. One boater even offered a joint. I politely told him to get off my island.
Miami Friday: Class, work, then the water.
I interrupted the pelican convention at the beach today. There were about six of them fishing off the peer.
I kept stepping on sea urchins too.
The beach is a wildlife reservation. “Wildlife” is an over-statement. The possums are so domesticated on the island that people are hand-feeding them.
