Floridaze. I'm in one.

I failed. Like I said below: I love starting stuff up and stopping! It's only the thrill of quitting that keeps me motivated in life. I'm working on it and every day is a challenge.

So I missed one day. I promise it won't happen again. It's not like we're dating; it's a casual thing, isn't it? We didn't say we were anything. So why is this blog putting more pressure on me than a relationship? We just started texting, like, three days ago.

I think things are moving too fast.

On a lighter note, we're home from Florida! After four plane rides, diarrhea-inducing airport food - reheated sandwiches and peanut butter cup cheesecake - and long arduous walks through giant airports carrying a suitcase without a shoulder strap or wheels, (Picture a briefcase, but eight times heavier, hence my sore triceps today) we're home. As I looked down out of the airplane and saw Transit Road in Clarence, N.Y. and all of its fine offerings from chain restaurants to movie theaters to car dealerships and my heart sort of sank into desolation next to Sky magazine in the seat caddy in front of me.

What will I miss most about Florida? Being the youngest person in an 18-mile radius. Unlimited trail mix. Air conditioning.

That was the best part. Being in air conditioning and knowing it's sweltering hot outside. It's a safe feeling. Comfortable, too. Try it some time.

Nothing beats a good sunset. Literally, you'll never beat the sun.

But the ends of sunsets are always awkward. It goes down and we're looking at nothing, and we're cold.

Like "getting lunch." What happens when "lunch" is over? Who leaves first?

Jeanine (mom) at the Hibachi restaurant.

Is every artiste d'Hibachi trained to make the onion pyramid and fill it with flames?

And that spinny thing with the eggs? That too? Guess it's all part of show-business.

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Me. Myself. Yes, it's me. Waiting for brick-oven pizza, looking phly as ever. 

Yes, I spelled fly with a "ph."

The workers here were Italian; at least that's what they wanted us to think.

Why is it that every time an Italian man talks to me - which is once every six years - I feel like I'm being courted? Maybe it's the pointy shoes, I don't know. Their pointy shoes, I mean. I don't own any.

Our villa. This whole thing. Nice, isn't it?
No I'm just kidding, it's a building of condos!

Emily (sissy) and I at the Crow's Nest Restaurant, where us gals ordered not one, not two, but three appetizers!

Ate 'em up, we did. Then hated ourselves for the rest of the night.

Just kidding.

So that's our trip in six photos. But if we're going by that "photo is worth a thousand words" rule, then there's a nice miniature dissertation on my trip to Florida.

If only papers were that easy.