A Guest at the Hotel

As the December sun sets upon the Gulf of Mexico, the white sands of Clearwater Beach take on a pinkish hue at the Tiki-bar of The Beach Resort Hotel. The northbound traffic on the Sand Key bridge, which spans the inter coastal harbor, slows to a snails pace as drivers fend off piercing rays of sun, and squint to cut it's blinding glare. The gulf waves along the empty beach advance, and then retreat, as gulls and egrets rush to pounce on it's expectorate. A gust of wind sprays mists of salty air upon my lips as I eye the carcass of a sea bass washed up along the shore, I spit, then smile and think... at least I'm not in jail.

I feel a sense of pity towards the poor misguided souls, such as I was, when I first came to this jutting extension of America's groin. One dreams of basking on the bleached sand beaches, and sipping Piña Coladas with bikini clad women. The thought of moving down here and spending the entire year, without so much as the thought of shoveling snow, overshadows the fact that you love the change of seasons. The brilliant shades of autumns leaves forgotten. The iron mountains of your city skyline, and winter walks along Lake Michigan, just memories. The realities of who you are and where your from, betrayed by the palm tree fantasy of a Floridian ruse. The slide whistle song of the cardinal, drowned out by the shrieks of egrets and herons, as they feast on the torso of what very well might have been your better judgment, tossed to the side for the price of a moments enchantment. Florida is a lie, a siren, a temptress, and a vixen; Florida is a whore!