Because I’m a Flo-grown freak.

On the Georgia line — upon sparking a blunt I’m struck by a thought of Emergen-C in the morning, the tingle that it gives me in my throat if I stir it not too well which I love and the taste of hotel muffins — little, miniature poppyseed muffins that taste a bit like paper. Serenaded by a sweet memory of homeless Laura hitting crack cocaine in my living room without permission and Danny’s Song by Kenny Loggins playing on the radio the first time that I tried it with her that very same day and moment, I have to smirk and smile at how peer pressure got the best of me so depravedly. The seasoning that I’m allergic to in Zaxby’s chicken and the north Florida hustle on the drive down to St Petersburg, hurricanes and palm trees, condos and pink hotels, neon signs and mermaid sculptures, glass bricks and bull sharks, sandy grass, stucco, brown recluses, banana spiders and fixie bicycles, flea markets, pawn shops, longboards, beaches of course, green anoles, golf courses, estuaries, waffle houses, bayous, dollar stores, souvenir stores, bait shops, air plants, spanish moss and key lime pie among other treasures flood my mind. Dreams of sunshine. Dreams of sunshowers. Dreams of lightning. Dreams of everything: sunsets, double rainbows, tornado warnings and warm, thick early fall nights. But nothing would portend in dreams Mickey Mouse standing his ground in the magic kingdom. As if to distract me from the tragic death of a teen named Jamal and Mickey’s blood stained gloves, Florida man in a number one grandpa t-shirt welcomes me across the border. Oranges and alligators grace the face of the first billboard that I see. Jesus Christ follows closely after, reminding me to give him a try. As if mandatory to be there, palm trees line up along the highway and pop prominently into view. The car next to me has a little puffer fish hanging from the rearview mirror with a straw hat and I struggle to find anything that’s more Floridian than that. That’s it. That’s the winner.


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