Tornado Bomb

I’ve put 50,000 miles on my body over the past month. I need an oil change. And a lube job. And my tires rotated, if you know what I mean. My hair is long, I have a beard, and I smell like the ocean. My place looks like a tornado bomb blew up here. I have wine and I can be quite entertaining. I have a rather large cat with a predisposition to attack. (Usually me.) I have references. I know more than most in Red Bank. I get comps at most bars in town. I get better tables at restaurants just from being around so much. I need new furniture. I want a sleigh bed and a couch and an HDTV. And a house of my own. I need a woman with good taste, otherwise I pick out whatever has the most orange in it. I need a visit from Merry Maids. I went body boarding on Monday and lived to tell about it, for a change. I still have salt water in my lungs and I love the periodic shortness of breath it gives me. Few even come close to the amount of time I have spent in the ocean, let alone on its edge. I have rich history, a dynamic cache of experience. I have stories that will make your shoes spontaneously fly off. (“Wait, this isn’t our bus.”) (“Ohmygod! Patrick was hit by a car!”) (“Trifecta!”) (“Let’s get out of here before the locksmith gets here, OK?”) (“There’s nobody in that closet. Who could hide in that grody pit?”) (“There's a flood in my tent. I don’t like rain.”) All perfectly innocent situations, but all with stories behind them. That y’all will soon read. 50,000 miles, and I’m just getting started.