Florida, we just don't like each other do we? You just CAN'T be nice to me. You wait until I leave town to flood my apartment, you send me to Orlando and send my luggage to outer space, and today, you steal my cell phone. Actually, you steal my purse, which happens to not have my wallet in it but does have my glasses and Burt's Bees chapstick. Florida, I liked that chapstick. And I really liked my phone. I had just taken a picture of the biggest onion I'd ever seen, and now that memory is lost forever. Why would you do that to me?
Thankfully I have comrades in the Alliance Against Cruel Florida. Rae is awesome, not only for consoling me with delicious burrito-food but for driving all over this ass-backward town looking for a Cingular store when she could be doing delightful stats homework instead. My other ally against the agonies of Florida: beer. About a year's supply-worth, by my estimate. I returned my spare guitar today, but since they only offer store credit I conceded to accept the biggest prepaid tab in my young history. It's really quite providential if you think about it. See? When God closes a door (phone) he opens a window (beer). I'm sure you could find that in Isaiah or something.
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