Josh and I moved into our new apartment not twenty-four hours ago. All my clothes are still in boxes, so feast upon the last of my Maine pictures. I’m gonna go watch some slasher movies.
I’m still in Maine as long as there’s still sand in my hair, right? (No, but actually: I fear it’s multiplying.) I got back last night, but I’ll probably be processing these photos for days. So you’ll have to keep seeing the seaside long after the leaves have turned and you wish the sand would just wash out of your hair already. Get used to it.
At first I balked at the horrifically misplaced apostrophe. (“Come on, WE’RE LEAVING!”) Then I realized that in this context, “Crumpet” is actually someone’s last name. Confectioners named Crumpet. Christ, that’s way too much twee. I think it’s probably a front for coke. Or, like…ultra coke. Most likely lizard people.
So about this outfit. I packed only my most whimsical clothes for Maine (about half my closet). If there is one look I can’t stand, it’s “tourist chic”. Were I a masked vigilante, my target of choice would be fanny packs and big white sneakers. Into the sea I’d chuck them, while their owners slept none the wiser. In Maine, I wanted to look like…well, not exactly a native. More like a manifestation sprung up from the town’s sheer kitsch. Something catalyzed into being to make the hordes’ days more interesting.
I must have succeeded, because I got circus theme music whistled at me from a passing car.