turns out the magical elixir containing the secret to eternal youth is overpriced. go figure.
we hate it here. the people are cranky and impatient, the beaches private (and invisible from the highways), the food expensive, and the aesthetic nascar tacky. it's california gone very very wrong, and the whole state feels backwards. according to all reasonable laws of science and the universe, the sun sets into the ocean; it does not rise from it. but the sun also rising was kinda the point: the only thing we had any desire to do in miami was drive to key west to check out ernest hemingway's house. it's populated by several generations of six-toed cats, and his second wife replaced all the ceiling fans with chandeliers from her extensive collection. every room is decorated with pictures of hemingway with something he's killed. our tour guide was rad and opened the iron gates to the study so we could sit at the man's typewriter. now that he has inspired my fingertips, i will either finish my dissertation or stick a shotgun in my mouth. it's time to go home.