I’m about one more 92-degree day away from laying down in the Tractor Supply stock tank and calling it a vacation.
I need a good local swimming hole.
Also, if you happen to see an unusually pale creature wandering toward the water, don’t call the DNR. It’s not the White Sasquatch. It’s just me, an Irish ginger science experiment whose lifelong mortal enemy has been the sun. You remember those old video games where the sun had angry eyes and spent the entire level trying to kill you for absolutely no reason? That’s basically my daily commute. I swear I don’t have to eat mushrooms to make it make sense. The sun just wakes up every morning and chooses violence.
I’m looking for cold water, maybe a rope swing that’s one bad decision away from becoming tomorrow’s news headline, and preferably somewhere with fewer water snakes than conspiracy theories.
I found one lake, but it’s ten bucks to get in. That’s a pretty steep cover charge to swim with ducks that look judgmental and carp that have seen things.
If you’ve got a secret local spot, don’t burn it in the comments. My DMs are open. Send a carrier pigeon. Leave a treasure map in a hollow log. Communicate exclusively through cryptic raccoon behavior. I’ll figure it out.
And if you made it this far, you really shouldn’t be surprised, or offended, that this entire post was just an elaborate way of asking where I can legally get my nipples wet in public.
This dispatch and fifty-nine of its siblings are being bound into Hey! What The Farm! — $40, half of which turns straight into hay. Pre-order it and you’re literally feeding the animals who caused all this.
