Earl.

I wasn’t gonna write anything about Hurricane Earl.

I wasn’t gonna write about how hurricanes in general and Earl in particular consume so much time and effort.

I wasn’t gonna write about how hurricanes force you to suddenly see how much stuff you have that needs protecting.

I wasn’t gonna write about how hurricanes necessitate spending countless hours watching Cantore and Company at The Weather Channel and their gleefully dire predictions.

I wasn’t gonna write about how hurricanes make you make decisions you’d rather not make.

I wasn’t gonna write about how hurricanes make you re-think your reasons for living at the beach.

And I certainly wasn’t gonna write about how you feel about a hurricane when, AFTER you’ve second guessed your reasons for living at the beach, and AFTER making decisions you didn’t want to make, and AFTER spending countless hours watching Cantore and The Weather Channel, and AFTER protecting all the stuff you’ve suddenly found needs protecting, and AFTER all the time and effort preparing and worrying about a hurricane, the hurricane ends up being as big a turd as Earl was.

I just wasn’t gonna.