Of the building of sandcastles and the grit of salt on your skin who can tell? Have you been there, the afternoon reddening your forgetful lack of sunscreen? Flinging the towel clean so you can recline unencrusted only pollutes your eyes and mouth, noisy tooth grit plaguing your attempts to read or write or sleep. I've never been a beach person, having once floated unaware into the drifting tentacles of a Portuguese Man O' War. "It didn't attack you," she laughed. "They just drift." Bullshit. You weren't there. It growled at me and bared its ugly fangs. Not for me the sea and surf. 'Tis the land I lub.
Like many men I often wonder if I'm a good father. I do the best I can, but I'm plagued with doubts. Do I shove food into their cages often enough? Am I setting the cattle prod too high? Am I beating them enough to keep the devils out of their souls? How can we know? Sometimes we just have to wait until they grow up and overpower us and escape. Then, when they're out there on their own, running from our hounds, then we'll see what sorts of men and women they've become. We can only do our best and then pray that the gods do the rest.
That was, obviously, a joke. They will never be big enough to overpower me. Not with what I feed them.
Once when I was at the beach I was eaten by Jaws. It's true. You don't know. You weren't there.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
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