Salvation and cooler of light beer

DO YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT WEEK THIS IS? DO YOU? IT'S THE WEEK BEFORE FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND. AND OH HOLY HELL WITH PICKLES ON THE SIDE THERE IS NOTHING IN THIS CRAZY LITTLE WORLD I LOVE MORE THAN THE FOURTH OF JULY. Not Christmas, not No Pants Dance Parties, not vodka-soaked olives. Not even making out with your dad.

It's the one holiday of the year that truly revolves around beer, BBQing, and wearing as little clothing as possible. Besides Halloween. And St. Patrick's Day. And New Year's Eve. And Christmas at the Hanahans. But on the Fourth of July you get to do it on a BEACH. CHRIST what could be better than that I ask you? I am getting all hot under the collar just thinking about it. And I plan to get at it with all the energy, passion, and displaced fury of a uncontrollably hyperactive dog set loose on a room full of colorful balloons.

I am just going to tear this weekend to shreds. To SHREDS. To be honest, Fourth of July really snuck up on me this year. This time last year, we had been going to the beach for weeks. This year however, the weather shifted directly from winter to summer in a 48-hour period, stuck around for a couple days, realized it had forgotten about spring somewhere along the road, apologized for jumping the gun, and took a few steps back for the past week. So while my friends and family to the south have been soaking up the rays for a solid month, we New Englanders have been chomping at the bit for some warmth and sunshine. I can now say that I understand what a drug-addled addict jonesin' for a hit must feel like. Every day, checking the weather for the rain to stop and the sun to return. Already bruised and battered from the abominable winter from hell. Staring out the window beseechingly. Becoming increasingly aggressive and reclusive. Then the shakes come. The loss of appetite. The nail biting. The constant Facebook stalking of others in beachable climes. The paranoia. The mood swings. The pleading with the gods of weather. The hugging of the knees to to the chest and the rocking. It puts the lotion in the basket.

But this coming weekend that's all going to change. Because it WILL be sunny. It WILL be warm. And I WILL be firmly planted in the sand with my friends around me and a light beer in my hand for the entirety of the weekend. Rain is not an option. DO YOU HEAR ME GAH? I WILL NOT HAVE THAT SHIT.

I've been relatively ill for the past week or so, and upon looking back on a post from this time last year, I realized that I also spent the week before Fourth of July weekend aching and whining. This is a good sign. So if this year is anything like last year, I'll be sucking down rum punch, witnessing domestic disputes, losing articles of clothing, throwing full cans of beer, and crawling into my neighbor's bed in my bathing suit and sandy feet all before 9 p.m. on Saturday. One can only hope.

As such, I've been self-medicating by running myself into the ground, not getting enough sleep, chewing on DayQuil and washing it all down with a beer each night. It's like I like to test the extremes of my body. Oh, you don't feel very well, body? A little run down? HOW DO YOU FEEL NOW?!

Now all that's left to do is keep my head down and survive the week like the awkward little turtle I am. HUZZAH! Summer is really coming this time, you guys. I can feel it. And if it doesn't? Well, if it doesn't I will very calmly and collectedly get into my car, put on my seat belt, find an appropriately satisfying radio station and drive to Mexico never to return. LOLZ just kidding! No I'm not! Yes I am! No I'm really not! I will fucking burn rubber! Here's to sunshine!

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