I’m sitting in my office with a glass of wine—a large glass—trying to escape the reality of a leaking roof, falling plaster, and water coming in under exterior doors. Tropical Storm Fay has been with us for nearly three days now, and I’m tired of her.
Chinese water torture is in full swing in my family room, and it is not due to the Chinese Olympic divers on the TV there cleaning up all the gold medals. It is due to Gay Fay.
This is not a major hurricane. Hell, it is not even a minor hurricane. My neighborhood got no more than 40 mph winds. However, it is a very wet and slow moving tropical storm. We have received over three inches of rain thus far today, after getting five or six over the past few days. Structures are beginning to feel the strain.
My girlfriend’s house is in a town a half-hour away from here. She’s had close to 10 inches of rain today. Her street is flooded and water is creeping up her front lawn. Her pool threatens to overflow and inundate the back of the house. She keeps draining it, trying to stay ahead of the skies. A nearby hospital is closed to ambulances, as its emergency ambulance entrance is flooded. The kids are excited, though, convinced that they’ll get the opportunity to blow up the inflatable kayak and paddle down the street.
Ahh, to be able to view this whole thing through the eyes of kids!
Yet we’re better off than people in southern Brevard County. People there have had their houses become uninhabitable and have been warned to stay off the streets, which are more like rivers, due to alligators, snakes, bacteria, and viruses inhabiting the water.
Gay Fay needs to get her moist, windy ass out of town. This is one blowjob I neither need nor want. She’s moving west at 5 mph, which is not fast enough for me. Looking at the weather radar, we’re not going to have a break for a day or so.
I’m going to get some more wine.