in a few hours, we’ll be at the beach and, man o manishevitz , i’m telling you it literally could not be a minute too soon. the last week has been outrageously intense — intense heat-n-humidity, intense socializing, intense working, intense prep to get outta this town. it got so bad yesterday that i had to dig into my emergency xanax supply. my poor assistant wasn’t doing much better, especially after having to spend two hours at the post office trying to send off all the various and sundry letters, parcels and packages that have come to symbolize, in some hellish metaphorical way, the end of one season and the beginning of another.

fact is mamma never said it was going to be like this. it’s a fucking vacation after all, a mere four (maybe five) weeks away from the hustle-n-bustle, but for all the stress, storming and shouting matches, you’d think we were immigrating to mongolia or mars. allora, i have this happy little idea — yeah, call me a dreamer — that these subsequent weeks of laxation at the shore might actually signify an easier year ahead. god knows this one has been bumpy enough for two or three. god knows we’ve seriously earned this holiday.

hard to say how much (if any) journaling i’ll do. i’m leaving it and most everything else up up up in the air, following my natural instinct to do just what i want to do and not a thing more. of course, i suppose the fact that i am (oh yes, i am) going to stop smoking ought to put an interesting edge on the party. i believe the b/f is packing his earplugs and planning on spiking my cocktails with plenty of the aforementioned xanax.

x, as they say, marks the spot.

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