Well, I'd like to strike my thoughts on her bad attitude from the record, though Ms. Gosselin was not even mucking around in inches of mud like I was for three days. She has every right to her bad attitude, and so do I. How is pretending to be homeless fun? The whole reason I go to my soul-destroying job every day is so that I won't have to sleep in the mud under a bridge with sex offenders. Why am I doing it for recreational purposes?
It rained for 3 days solid in beautiful Mendocino, California. To quote Ray Bradbury, "The rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains. It came by the pound and the ton, it hacked at the jungle and the trees like scissors and shaved the grass and tunneled the soil and molted the bushes. It shrank men's hands into the hands of wrinkled apes; it rained a solid glassy rain, and it never stopped."
My mind raced hysterically as I listened to the water pound our tent and bead off into the slurry of mud beneath us. I tried to regulate my heartbeat as I looked over at him pulling his soaking shoes back on. I watched the mud creep across the tarp again. "Where are you going?" I asked, panicky.
"To the beach. We're going to fish and let the dogs play."
In the freezing rain? I thought incredulously, searching for the words to express my confusion. "In the freezing rain?" I ended up saying. I remembered the wisdom one of the girls accompanying us had spoken earlier as she flounced away up a hill in the soaking wet, "If you wait for the rain to stop to have a good time, you're never going to have a good time."
"I feel bad leaving you here," he replied, a sentiment repeated several times throughout the trip. "You sure you don't want to come?"
I shook my head and turned away hastily, focusing my attention on breathing. I can get through this, I can get through this, I can get through this. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured the end of that Ray Bradbury story. The men had gone insane in the rain, and died in the mud, their mouths agape and streaming with rain water. The mud-sucking of his boots sounded and faded as I began desperately feeling around for my journal. I realized that of all the worthless crap I'd packed, that was not part of it. Bluhhhhhhhh.
On the third morning, I made him pack up our shit and split while the rest were abalone diving (also not something I participated in) no matter how rude he insisted that was. I may have gone insane, but I've come back from it. I write this from my computer desk inside my duplex, where I have never appreciated cohabiting with Ophelia so much in my life. With a television from the 80's and nary an iApplication in sight, I may not be a high-tech girl, but I am a creature of comforts. I made out with my bedroom wall for a solid five minutes upon arriving home. I even miss my soul-destroying job.