This is another tour story (which reminds me, Toy Story 3 comes out the day before my birthday).
On our 4th day of tour, we resided in St. Petersburg at our drummer Justin's dad's best friend's house. The house itself was literally only 1,000 or 2,000 feet from beach of the Gulf of Mexico. It was a ridiculously beautiful day in Tampa and we all wanted to spend the day at the beach. It was actually a swell idea and there aren't many chances for me to see the Gulf of Mexico since I live near the Atlantic Ocean on the other side of Florida.
I figured since the beach is so close to the house, it would be logical to just walk to the beach and enjoy the day there. Since I don't wear sandals ever, I wear sneakers instead. Therefore, I don't wear shoes to the beach because sand + sneakers = fuck you. So I walked barefoot to the beach ... terrible idea. The asphalt was literally and metaphorically hot coals, the black pavement being a thousand times hotter than the gravelly gray roads. The second I placed my naked feet on the road, I felt the intensity of a million suns burning on my soles. I figured if I ran to the beach swiftly enough, the pain will subside once I rush my fat ass to the ocean. I swear to you guys, I tried so hard to sprint to the salty finish line, but my legs stopped working due to the unbearable heat from the road. I hopped like a elephant on egg shells across the road and the dirty sand on the street before the beach.
When I finally got to the beach, the sand was no improvement. That shit was just like road in granulated form. I raced to the deep blue panacea as fast as my chubby burnt stubs could take me. In mid-pace, I threw my towel on the sand by the shore and jumped into the water, holding my feet in relief. After romping in the Gulf of Mexico, I faced the beach/allegorical minefield, totally not wanting to repeat the same heartbreaking process. I had to get back at the house ultimately, so I just sucked it up and trekked across the beach and across the same fucking road that I will forever have hatred for.
I earned several monumental blisters on my feet, the size of silver dollars. I had to walk everywhere on the sides of my feet practically just to get to point A to point where-ever-the-fuck. It was until the show at the Skate Park Of Tampa, I started walking on the flats of my feet. When my band played, I busted every blister on my foot stomping on the stage and running back and forth on stage.
To add pain to disappointment, we all went to the Jupiter beach before our Pompano Beach show. The sand wasn't that hot and it was a stroll on the beach compared ... to ... the beach? Anyways, the day at the ocean went swimmingly (that's it, I'm done with puns) until my tour mate Tom (rhythm guitarist of Horizons) and new friend Clementine went to the nearby river for a freshwater dip. I decided to join their festivities and left my glasses at the beach because I figured why bring them if I'm just gonna go in the water again. Tom and Clementine left a little earlier than I did and I attempted to follow them. I walked across the beach and to the road and across the way I thought I saw them enter the woods to the river (I didn't have my glasses on so all I could recognize was the color of their swim suits). I walked towards the woods and found out that it was a dead end and I had to guess that Tom was secretly motherfucking Houdini and disappeared with Clementine to the river. I turned around and walked on those little acorns shaped like medieval Morning Stars (look it up) for literally an entire hour. A full hour of walking on what felt like broken glass and shattered dreams.
I ended up with cuts and gashes on the fresh peeled skin of my post-blistered feet. I hated myself the whole time until I jumped in the pool at Jarred's house to cool off. I hate beaches.
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