yes, that is a banana daiquiri, and  yes, i have the palate of a 16 year old trapped in the body of a 34 year old.

{they apparently don’t carry fuzzy navel wine coolers at this hotel} losers.

i’m trying to move into the art of devil may care for the next seven days.

one thing about costa rica, as peaceful and serene as it is, it’s also louder than rock-a-billy concert.

birds don’t chirp, they lady gaga each other from nest to nest; traipsing their dance party from dawn to dusk amassing more participants as the hours progress. the birds of costa rica remind me of the club kids in ibiza: moving from one foam party to the next; high on sunshine and blue sky.

the insects i cannot see, but i’m sure if i could they’d be wearing oliver peoples shades and wicked cool tokyo black vests. they provide a techno base so strong and pulse rockin, the flower beds beat in steady unison across the property. palm fronds and birds of paradise bang their stalks to the left…to the right. every so often i can make out “comfortably numb” in their buzz.

lest we forget the belles of the ball: the monkeys. ballgown shaped tree tops shake and shimmy across the skyline, as the playful primates swing and sing from branch to branch announcing their arrival. always crash landing, breaking shit (vines), but rebounding the fun with a little hands in the air, two-legged hop hop to get to party re-started.

my toe taps in participation. a little head bob side to side, maybe some shoulder swagger once the rum sets in.

breathing in, breathing out.

this crazy, sick, lovely, lucky life.

how dare i?

off to get high on some mango scented air.