Sunday

The problem with Florida is that various of its most recently-inebriated inhabitants must awake each morning to celestial blue skies and swaying palm trees and tender breezes that gently ply the curls of one's hair, an environment whose beguiling charms taunt the recent drunk who chooses to spend her day in an airless cave watching Deadwood on a laptop, who feels like she must apologize to the weather as to why she simply cannot exert herself to attend the beach that day, and who feels pangs of both guilt and despondency until the skies open and the rains pour and her activities are acknowledged as acceptable by nature's whims, which kindly render her street impassable and puddled.