I can’t believe it’s finally the last day of vacation. On one hand, I’m sad, but on the other, mostly relieved, since it has in fact been the vacation from hell. I had no idea that many things could possibly go wrong in one week. This has to be some kind of a record.
Mexico must be getting its revenge on me. Yes, Montezuma’s revenge too, but I’d rather not talk about that. I’m talking about all the times I changed the words to the James Taylor song. “Mexico, I never really been and I don’t wanna go.” I guess that pissed off the Mexican gods. Hey, what can I say? I’m not a fan of places where you can’t drink the water or go for a walk without getting kidnapped. Why am I here, then? Because my friends thought it would be fun. “You worry too much,” they told me. “Tequila will kill anything.” I’m pretty sure it killed my liver, my taste buds, and my esophagus, so I guess they were right. Where are they now? you ask. They’re down at the beach, doing jello shots off people’s bodies and probably getting tattoos and hepatitis. Me, I figured I should play it safe and just stay here in the compound by the pool.
Finally: quiet and relaxation. My body melts into the chaise as the sun penetrates my flesh. Ah, decompression! But wait…what’s that smell?
I open my eyes and look at the sorta chubby dude next to me, lying on his stomach. His back is turning really, really red. I sniff some more. Can’t place it. Then I think about it - dude hasn’t moved for hours. I sniff again. Wait, I know that smell. It’s kind of like that rotting deer smell along the highway.
Aw crap…
