You have to die of something. Death, usually. Shame, sometimes. A broken heart, if your life is a certain class of period drama. An t-Ocras maybe, if you were Peig´s parents´ generation, An t-Olc if you were Peig´s generation, and most likely by your own hand if you had anything to do with the woman herself. It came to me in a dream however, that am destined to expire slowly and painfully over many years in the tortuous hell that is Death By James Blunt, although not before i´ve made every effort to preemptively return the favour. Like Death By Shakira, and the now banned Death By Mark Morrison, Death By James Blunt kills by slowly but persistantly removing your will to live, one whiny fucking verse at a time. Yes, in that nasally pleading twang reserved for 14-year old girls - and Merkins of all ages - the world over, he is systematically invading every holiday i take. Will somebody please put me out of his misery.
So we went to Costa Rica in search of turtles for Deb. No luck, but we did spend a lot of time on small uncomfortable boats going places. The country is nice, geared for tourists, and not quite devoid enough of Merkins for my tastes. I´m sure i´ll be back, either to pass through it at speed to get to Panama, or to traffic drugs. Separate blogs for those trips when they happen.
as you were.