I live just outside of High Springs, a tiny town in north-central Florida that's so technologically backwards we're jealous of those bastards from Deliverance because they've got banjos. The power grid out here is unreliable to the point that I lose electricity every time a squirrel breaks wind. Actually, that was an exaggeration for comedic purposes. The power only goes out every time a squirrel belches. It came as no surprise, then, that my power went out the very moment hurricane Frances first winked suggestively at me, and that as I write this six days later I'm still without power.
Forgive me, Scorpions. You foretold the manner in which I'd be rocked, but I was too young and naive to accept the truth.
If you've been thinking about moving to the boonies of Florida and directly into the path of a hurricane, I've got some advice that might help you make an informed decision: don't. There is only one road that links my house to civilization, and it's currently swimming in a fifty-yard wide river that's five feet deep. I have no running water since my well runs on an electric pump. All I do have is a phone line that miraculously began to work yesterday, an alarming stench eminating from my body which is slightly different from my usual alarming stench, and a laptop with barely enough power to transcribe this update from my notebook. I apologize ahead of time if it's short and unfunny. You'd be amazed at the things you laugh at after a steady diet of granola and rainwater.
No running water means no clean clothes, flushing toilets, or even showers. The closest I came to bathing was when I stood in the rain the other day until a bee scared me back inside. I've accumulated so many layers of dirt that my ridiculously overpriced dirt-based skin treatment has almost been rendered useless. Almost.
This paragraph deals with mature themes, so readers with weak sensibilities might want to turn their heads. Readers with weak necks might want to close their eyes instead, and readers with x-ray vision who can see through their eyelids might want to just skip to the next paragraph. Since I've been conserving my laptop's power for this update, I haven't had proper access to porn. Being the sort of guy who's too shy to buy dirty magazines and keep them in his closet for just this situation, I've had to resort to using my imagination by fantasizing about owning an issue of Playboy.
When you're stranded in the woods by yourself with no electricity, screaming obscenities and crying can get boring pretty quick. To stave off boredom, I found myself playing a series of short-lived games such as:
Eat That Bug
Stare At The Television And Attempt To Will It To Life
Run In Circles
What The Fuck Was That Noise? (usually followed by...)
Will I Ever Fall Asleep Again? Ever?
Run In Circles 2: Counter-Clockwise Edition
I'm hopeful that my power will be restored before my body is rendered completely immobile by layer upon layer of dirt or I do something drastic such as spending a few bucks on a hotel room. For now, my laptop's battery is waning and I must cut this update short. Until next time, gentle reader, stay safe and heed the wisdom of TLC's lyrics. Don't go chasing waterfalls and hurricanes while driving drunk with an eyepatch obstructing your sight.
Ferguson's long arm of the law laments the latest cutback.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
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