Dear Diary

 Remind me again why I came here.  I was supposed to be a vacation, right?  Fun in the sun, lying around on the beach, getting some sun, feeling safe, even.  I mean, some of these folks are good, but it’s damned hard to hide thirty inches on steel in a pair of trunks or a wet suit. 

 So anyway, I’m here to get some sun, right?  Hah!  I wake up and the world is gray with fog.  The folks call it marine layer and act like it’s no big deal.  But it means there’s more people wandering around in coats and stuff than you’d think at the beach.  

 And hey, when is that super-constitution going to kick in?  I mean, come on…  The ROG packs away the beers all night and hardly blinks.  Mac doesn’t drink as much, but he still doesn’t get really tweaked.  But last night, whoa!  Way too much.  Which is why I seem to have woken up, in my bed, thankfully enough, but with a strange woman next to me, and a flipping tattoo on my arm.  It’s not bad, as tattoos go, but it bears a striking resemblance to the woman, who is still sleeping in my bed.  And I’m getting just a little but freaked by the whole thing.  Uh-oh…  More later…

 Well, that was certainly surreal.  I wasn’t imagining things… She was the girl in the tattoo, I’m apparently ‘a real good time,’ and she’ll see me around.  Ummm…did I miss something here, or was I just blown off? 

 Last night’s getting a little less foggy.  I remember going to a bar, getting drunk off my skull, on margaritas, among other things…  Oh, and get this.  The girl?  Yeah.  Margarita.  Turns out I wanted one to go. 

 It sounds pretty crass in the cold light of day (what little of it there is through the damned fog!) so I feel like a world-class heel, naturally.  Good thing she’s a good sport.  And I know what Mac would say.  I can just hear him now, telling me it’s my own damn fault.  And he’d be right. 

 So note to self in 500 years: Fewer margaritas.  And definitely no more tattoos

         RR
 

Thanks to Teresa Coffman for sending the lyrics.

Margaritaville, by Jimmy Buffet

Nibblin' on sponge cake
Watchin' the sun bake
All of those tourists covered with oil
Strummin' my six string
On my front porch swing
Smell those shrimp, they're beginning to boil

Wasted away again in Margaritaville
Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame
But I know it's nobody's fault

Don't know the reason
I stayed here all season
With nothing to show but this brand new tattoo
But it's a real beauty
A Mexican cutie
How it got here I haven't a clue

Wasted away again in Margaritaville
Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame
Now I think, hell, it could be my fault

Old men in tank tops
Cruising the gift shops
Checking out the chiquitas down by the shore
They dream about weight loss
Wish they could be their own boss
Those three day vacations become such a bore

I blew out my flip-flop
stepped on a pop top
cut my heel, had to cruise on back home
But there's BOOZE in the blender
And soon it will render
That frozen concoction that helps me hang on

Wasted away again in Margaritaville
Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame
But I know, it's my own damn fault
Yes, and some people claim that there's a woman to blame
And I know, its my own damn fault
 

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