I woke up out of a job, a quarter of the way into the summer with a broken tolerance for the rain falling outside my Brooklyn window. I booked a ticket to Florida within four hours. That was four days ago and since then there has been sunshine on my shoulders (makes me happy) sore muscle tissue featured in my triceps and hamstrings due to oar rowing and bike pedaling and sparkly eyeballs with bags under them as four'o'clock bedtimes are now considered predictable. It's like I came to the South strictly to exercise and examine May in the dead of night.

Christian picked me up this afternoon and hauled me to Summerfield where I watched my dad play the drums and listen to him tell me how beautiful I looked eight thousand times. He just looked at me and started crying pretty much. He works with my brother every single day installing closets and he looks at me and cries. What?

I know what. It's still strange, though.

I've raped everyone's iPod and now I'm huddled on the couch starring my enormous Ryan Adams collection and oozing daydreams about my romantic sightings of red moons and spanish moss, canoe waters and PBRs, floral breezes and piano players. Not at the same time. People take hold of your pen! Handwriting is a terrible thing to waste.