Sunday afternoons I spend my time staring at the porch swing outside my window. I don't know why I keep the damn thing; I haven't sat in it in nearly two years. Well, it probably has been longer. I have grown too fat, and the strings are too frayed. I guess I am still waiting to lose weight, but who loses weight anymore? I mean, health is so passé, plus I have the money to pay for companionship. So why would I bother losing weight and why would I keep that damn porch swing? I guess the only reason why is a reminder of a life that existed for me a while ago. A life with a wife, kids, long walks, and salads. But fuck vegetables, right?!?

Diving isn't easy, especially when you lied about being certified. The warm salt water is so nice against my skin and the bright colors spread across the ocean floor almost make up for the tight grip growing tighter around my right ankle. I would hate to ruin this moment by looking behind me. A second appendage slithers up my left ankle and secures its grip. The rush of water past my body as I am forcefully pulled deeper into the abyss pulls the air right from my lungs. I don't know which is worse, being eaten or drowning, we'll see.

The Dorito cheese dust fingerprints that were left behind were enough to indicate me in the month-long crime spree. So, with a heavy heart and cheesy fingers, I pack my bags and head to the woods for a prolonged staycation. Much like the Unabomber, I will find respite in a shack and use my time to finish a poorly written, convoluted book.

Best wishes...