I knew it would come to this. These trips always have their high and lows.
Inland, Central Florida is just a flat, overcrowded turd with endless strip malls, hot asphalt, stop lights and retail, suburban redundancy.
Miles and miles of traffic. Dismal, blue-haired drivers staring vacantly at their dashboard, pull out in front of hapless riders, like soulless, geriatric zombies, then putter down the road at twenty mph.
Octogenarians, dying manatees and bottlenosed dolphins flop on the sidewalks while estate lawyers, feral dogs and scavanging pelicans wait patiently to dine on the nourishing, fat-laden carcasses.
Liquor stores, pawn shops and fast food outlets line the streets while leather-faced tweakers drool spittle and failure through sun-blistered lips.
Supposed to rain tomorrow.