Moldy Tropical Depressions

It smells like wet mold. There is a Tropical Depression outside of our house trying to get in. It was not invited. I want a Beach Day. It's been a long week and we've worked hard. Worn out and tired, I want to "stick my toes in the water and my ass in the sand", sip a Screwdriver and say my morning prayers. I want to lust after Sarah wearing her bikini, take walks holding hands and talk about all of the dancing we're going to do next week. I want to wear my sunglasses, my favorite UGA cap, and stroll to the Bored meeting. I want to grill out on the Beloved Back Deck, listen to Dennis Wilson songs, and mess around with the plants. Tonight I want to gaze at stars, sip wine, and prop my feet on the railing. Then I want to walk inside, crawl into bed with Sarah and ... well the windows would be open so we'd have to be quiet. "But Noooooooo," to quote John Belushi. It's the beginning of Hurricane Season and this damn Tropical Depression is reminding the east coast of it. The people of North Carolina are already evacuating ... it could be because of their oppression of gay people that God sends so many hurricanes their way ... I have to think about this but, it makes sense. Anyway, Pat Prokop and the other Weather Gods are warning us to not go swimming because of the rip currents. As though anybody in their right mind would go swimming on such a shitty day. Really? So I'm rethinking my day. I just have to take out a couple of parts but accomplish the same end results. Fix a screwdriver. Take off my sunglasses. Forget the sun tan lotion but take off my clothes. Sarah's still in bed. Cut to the chase. OK, I gotta go. Damn Moldy Tropical Depressions. Ummmm ... thanks.