Sandals & Spectacles

Today was the first day in about a week I finally looked in a mirror.
In a whirlwind of two to three hour existence sessions in the ocean, passing out in the backs of cars, talking shit in the sand, rinsing and repeating, there isn't time of mirrors.
I'm wearing make up and all the rest of it (brushed hair and expensive jeans), but my eyes are still bloodshot from the salty UV raping that comes along with general coastal bliss.
I'm wearing glasses to try to heal/hide them, but I'm almost positive I just look stoned.
Clear eyes ain't got shit the ocean's wrath.

I feel like a fish out of water (sputtering and flopping in a tide pool) with my sunburn chaffing underneath my previously mentioned expensive jeans. My sore shoulders feel like they are bulging out of this fitted blouse.
Patricia v. the cube: round III

My disbelief that proofreading for eight hours will get me anywhere in my career oriented sense of reality (half-assed as it is), is being reflected in the beat up sandals I've decided are acceptable to wear.

My weekend was a over exposed old photograph, stained with nostalgic sunshine and caked in salt, left in the sand. I've acquired tan lines, scabs, and the fleeting memories of getting solid fives down the line and legit head dips on the inside.
I'd much rather have my scabbed toes get rubbed raw on the kneed paddle back up the point, my contact adorning eyes feeling like they just got lemon squeezed in them from the salt and sun overdose, than be reclining in this office chair.
Bleached blond and sunburned in front of a computer.

I day dream of the wise sages who hang with innate ease through steep sections, doing nothing but strolling above forests of cobble stone and seaweed. And then I wake up and type.

My sense of reality has been morphed into peeling lines and an over concern of how I hold my arms. It isn't real. But today is.