Keep The Lawyers & Guns, Just Send Money

Oh, August, five days of you and I’m exhausted.

Partly, it’s the weather. This clingy wet haze that’s been hanging around is like a voice in the air whispering, “You want to take a nap now…” So what did I do for three hours this afternoon? You bet I took a nap. Unfortunately, when I woke up, the haze was still there and I wanted another nap.

And the assholes. God, there are so many of them, and not a single one knows the appropriate way to walk down a sidewalk, or park, or order a drink in under thirty seconds. (“Um… I want something… um…blue?). They travel in packs of about seventy, half of whom are usually incapable of walking (the other half tend to be incapable of shutting up).

And because the money’s not here, the natives are ornery. The bartenders, waitresses and other industry people who are used to rolling around in piles of cash in July and August are just as poor as the retail jerks, and we’re a bunch of stressed out crazies, desperate for any way to make just a fraction of the cash we were expecting.

And the poor, poor retail jerks. Granted, they have only themselves to blame for their choice in profession, but I still feel sorry for them because there’s no gray area in a slow Martha’s Vineyard retail season. Either you’re bored to the brink of going braindead (and likely forbidden from reading a book or a magazine or sitting down), or your stupid little store is chocker-block full of wandering tightwad morons (who are of course incapable of talking without shouting). And when they leave, the wake of destruction is almost a godsend, because you have something to do…

September, I’m ready for you. Please come soon, or if you’re unable to, send money. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting impatiently, cursing the weather and perpetually fighting the urge to nap.

By saltgirlspeaks

I am a ridiculous person. And so are you.

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