It is written in the contrails of airplanes slicing through the sky. It is written in the frown lines on your professor’s forehead when you ask a stupid question (yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question). It is written in jacuzzi bubbles rising to the water’s surface, breaking, releasing their hot air. Chris Raffa. Chris. Raf. Fa. Three perfect syllables. One perfect man. I’m here to wipe his record clean. He DOES think women are funny. It turns out he thinks I, specifically, am not funny. Fair point Raffa. How was your weekend?
“Terrible now that you brought me up again in a Catchup.”
“Chris it’s only because I want your attention.”
Spring has sprung, and I’m coming to you live from the hot hot hot beaches of Playa Del Carmen in Mexico. I’m not happy. Not only did I get a big sunburn on my chest this morning, but I’ve noticed that there is some serious warming happening. Why else would the beaches be so hot hot hot in MARCH? We know what happens from here. For one, I can see at least six category-five hurricanes on the horizon from my beach perch. Their respective names are: Andrea, Barry, Chantal, Dorian, Erin, and Fernand. Chantal is my favorite. Much to my chagrin, the warming has also caused an earthquake right here; a rift in the ground is forming between my legs. The longer I type this, the longer a deep, searing sensation emanates from my burn and the more I think about how I should really jump to one side. I’m having a hard time deciding between the right half of the beach and my family. Now I’m doing a split over a 50-foot wide fissure, and my pants are probably gonna rip. Hello, doctor? I’m gonna need some medication because I’ve got a serious case of the Mondays. How was your weekend?
