Self Portrait (after baking in the sun)
Wednesday’s child is full of woe, as is lobster night if you’re a lobster or happen to look like one.
That’s when I realized it was lobster night. Luckily, I was appropriately attired and tired from getting up when the night was darkest before the dawn and my stomach attempted to secede from my body after absorbing too many rum creams, while a group of adventurous blokes finished the night with shots of Bob Marleys. A chorus of “Dear God” echoed beneath the hut where the staggering stragglers chug-a-lugged until they lowered their empty glasses to the bar with one collective thud.
Skin burnt. Head hurt. Well-done, Jamaican sun.
Drinks free. It seemed. Well-done, Jamaican Club.
Fine food. Strong booze. Paid for inclusively.
Who needs water when you have rum cream?
After too many I soon believed, it was a fashion faux pas to wear sun screen.
Well-done, Jamaican sun. Skin hot. Sunburn pain. I so needed some Lanocaine.
Store closed. Nurse? No. Went to the front desk to complain.
Was handed a used tube of Lanocaine. Had to give her my room number and name.
Then she said, “Oh, and hon. Bring back the tube, as soon as you’re done.”