Miss Carol’s talked me into another vacation.

We’re gonna be going to the BVI’s and bareboat charter a big ‘ole catamaran and sail around and tan and drink and try not to be touron turds.

I’m sure it’ll be fun. I’m pretty sure I need a vacation. I’m sure it’s gonna be lots of stuff.


I’m also sure I don’t want to go.

There. I said it.

I don’t want to go. It’s not the trip. It’s not the friends we’re goin’ with. It’s not like I won’t love the sun and the bikini’s.

It’s me.

I hate leaving.

I’m convinced each time we fly out that this time will be the last. That there ain’t no way I’m coming back. That the dog’sll just sit and wait, staring out the window and endlessly wonder where we went and why we didn’t come back.


In the lead up, not that it helps, while I walk ’em I talk to ’em and tell ’em we’ll be back, that it’s just a week and don’t worry and then I’ll kiss Cutter and Tug goodbye and gaze up at our house wistfully and wonder why I have to leave.

And then I’ll head out.

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