The Perils of Beach Writing (A Horrific Tale)

All a gal needs is a dream.

And a stick.

And, if possible, an expanse of unmarked sand.

(The stick doesn’t need to be cedar, but that would lend a lovely aroma to the following embarrassing proceedings.)

(Our stick was of the randomly-found-on-the-beach variety.)

No vacation can pass without being memorialized in the sand.

(All the best memorials can be washed away with a high tide.)

(Except Lincoln’s.)

(His is rather sturdy, but still quite dashing.)

Beach writing is a precise, delicate art.

You’re lulled into thinking it’ll be easy, a quick reminder of the time spent watching tiny dogs being forced into the ocean and avoiding seagulls who are possibly planning something.

Sure, it might seem a good idea to write the month and the year.

But that might give a different feeling than you hoped.

Then you’ll have to start anew.

Does it look better with the whole year?

We think not.

Putting the date numerically seemed best.

Yet the vertical lines make it all blur together.

Maybe we just need a luckier location.

Or maybe it’s us.

Finally, due to perseverance, the help of the Greek god Triton and our refusal to do it over again, we succeed.

Now our trip will live on in infamy.

And, yes, we realize it somewhat gives the impression that we’re dating, as the beach writing resembles something that would be carved onto a tree to emphasize never-ending love.

As you can see from Skye’s heart pose, we’ve come to embrace that.

Some people think the surprise attack will come from the Canadians

Which is just crazy

Because it’ll obviously be from the seagulls,

Megan

The Perils of Beach Writing (A Horrific Tale)

Tagged as: I'm classy in my mind, Skye rocks my socks, Sometimes I think I choose bad life goals