You will never catch me in Florida. I would rather swim in a pool of my grandfather’s sweat. I would rather use a centipede nest as a pillow. I would rather eat potato salad for the rest of my life.

Florida, I am convinced, is the place that old people go to live when they can feel their bodies grow deathly cold and wither up and they need the ass-crack heat of Florida to warm them.

And people who go to Florida for vacation? Oh, yeah, great idea. Forget about our nation’s beautiful capitol, Washington DC, and forget about the perfect, temperate California, and forget about enjoying a colorful fall in New Hampshire. Yeah, let’s go to the United States’ dank dick.

“Oh, Florida’s great, Disney, Epcot, Everglades, bleh bleh bleh.” Oh, such compelling arguments. I’ll remember that the next time a Tampa meth addict is asking me for money.

Have I ever been to Florida? No. Why would I ever do that to myself?

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