Old Beach Thoughts

This is what I posted on my other site, last year when I visited Cori in VA.

Thursday, March 18, 2004

Currently PlayingDestination: Beautiful
By Mae

It is sunny here today, and we’re going to go to the ocean, and I really don’t want to EVER see Asbury again. EVER.

I’ve decided that I’d rather become a beach bum and live in a black windowless van that smells of stale sweat and pot smoke, with a carpet with ground in sand and only a couple of beach towels to keep me warm at night. Then I would wake up in the morning with the sun in my eyes and find yet another ticket on my abode’s front window, which I would rip up and toss into the ocean, like so many apple blossoms, if apple blossoms grew on the beach . . . and then I would russle around to find a clean swimsuit, and if I didn’t find one I would shrug and depart my van in what I’d been wearing for the last 3 weeks, probably some red flowery bikini that I bought with my friends back in college, in the days when I cared. Then I’d spend my day teaching hot guys from all over the world to surf, and they would fall for me and all try to sleep with me, but I would be picky and not sleep with just anyone, because I don’t want an STD, or another kid.

Then one day I would wake up and be old and wrinkly, and no one would want me to teach them to surf, and I would wander up and down the beach as a bag lady, attempting to find meaning and purpose and shove them in the Kroger bag that was permanently affixed to my hand. But I wouldn’t find them, because purpose and meaning aren’t things people leave lying around the beach . . . they usually just leave empty beer cans and used condoms, and somehow those aren’t very effective substitutes for meaning and purpose. So eventually I would die sleeping on the beach, because I was old and couldn’t remember where my van was, and the beach patrol, or maybe an unsuspecting tourist, would find me two or three days later, probably with my face gnawed off by some sort of sand rat. And I would be unrecognizable and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, only without the fuss that was given to the unknown soldier, because somehow no one cares about the unknown beach bum. And my friends and family, who would have lost contact with me as soon as my wireless plan gave out, would never know what happened to me.

Wow. That’s terrible. Maybe I’ll come back to Asbury.

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