On Sunday we went to Rockport, a sleepy little seaside town in Massachusetts and J-Rab and I walked the streets there, ducking into the little shops we found and browsing through the trinkets inside them.
It was a sunny day, one I think we’ll all remember for a long time to come, and walking past a shop window, we saw this shirt:
Now, with less than 4 days of our holiday left, I’m tempted to take the advice on that shirt and just never go back.
J-Rab and I would drive down south, jump the border to Mexico, find menial jobs to get by and start a new life together. I’d write a lot more in our new life, actually get started banging out some of the scripts inside my head, maybe do some short stories here and there, land a few writing gigs, build my portfolio.
A few years down the track I’d land something legitimate, move back to the States, find that tiny seaside town and rent a flat there.
In summer I’d learn how to surf. Collect a few shells for J-Rab to make some jewelry. Leave the corporate world that I’ve become entwined in so far behind that I’d clean forget I was ever a part of it.
In about an hour J-Rab’s sister and her boyfriend are both going to leave for the airport and fly back to London and though we still got a few days left, I keep getting this feeling like the best parts of our holiday have already happened and all there is left now is that slow march back onto the plane and back to our day jobs and the thousands of emails that overflowing from our inboxes like a burst sewerage pipe.
Fuck, listen to me, whining like a little bitch. It’s been one of the best holidays of my life and all I’m thinking about is work when it hasn’t even ended yet.
Fuck that shit. I’m going to drink another beer and relax to the fucking max.
Catch you crazy cats tomorrow. Also, NOMINATE ME FOR THE SA BLOG AWARDS (click the badge on the right. Scroll up a little bit, theeeerreee it is…). Or I’ll jab you in the gums with a screwdriver.
Love from your buddy ol’ pal: