It’s as if every tan popular athletic person I despised in high school moved here with their grandparents and got saved.  That’s Florida.

I’m here for three days trying to hold my self-esteem together with long sleeve t-shirts, jeans and a soft rocking acoustic guitar.  It’s not much but it’s all I have.  God didn’t bless some of us, Florida, with keratin that reacts positively to sunlight or with pectoral muscles worthy of a low cut tank top.  No, no, some of us, Florida, look like we’re riding a chicken when we wear shorts and scare children if little more than an ankle or wrist should become visible unintentionally.

You, Florida, are the reminder I don’t need that I’m wanting in many areas related to personal appearance.  And you know this.  You know you’re better than me.  Yet, your generous music-loving heart guides you to my show anyway – to hear the body-like-a-microphone-stand, albinism burdened freak show with a guitar that I am sing a ditty or twelve.  Why?  Because, Florida, your beauty isn’t just skin deep.

Thanks for coming out to see me this weekend in Sebring, Ft.Lauderdale and Kendall.  And tell your grandma I said thanks too.