Dear Florida: I F-cking HATE You!

I just screamed a prayer that went something like this:

“Dear God,

F-ck Florida. Seriously. F-ck Florida!

It’s the butt crack of our judiciary: the state that acquitted both George Zimmerman and Casey Anthony.

It’s the home of the skankiest football team in the SEC with that nasty ass,  gotdamn “Gator Chomp.” 

And it was the state that I was in when I looked out at the beach and knew that my life was never going to be the same because when I got on that plane who I was before was going to eviscerate — because you were calling my Uncle Chunky home and I knew when that plane touched down in Tennessee, that the life that I had planned before, the dreams that I had before, were going to be drastically different.

So I’ll be damned if I allow the state of Florida to try to take my mama and my step-dad without me giving you hell about it, God. I appreciate you watching over them, Lord, but to be blunt — you are faithful, just, and good. So I expect it. And thank you for it. 

But I’m going to need them to come home — that’s just all there is to it. I’m going to need them to come home.

I’m through with that god-forsaken swamp that looks like a schizophrenic penis off of the rest of the nation.”

The beautiful thing about a 12-step program is that, unlike the Church of Christ, it taught me that God was big enough to take my anger.

NOT happy, but grateful.


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