Laguna is one of those idyllic towns no one belongs to. For synonyms, look up Cape Town and some coast of Ireland. The median age is somewhere in the mid-40s. That wasteland popularized by third marriages and much-too-late-to-have-any-significance midlife crises. The only difference between the regulars and the vacationers is the reason behind those made-for-TV smiles. When you live in paradise, that ecstasy plastered onto your face wears off slowly. Soon, a steady wave of prescription medicine swims alongside drizzles of chardonnay to keep your lights on.
You'd think man would have to try to ruin such a scene but…nature beckons. Beasts never die. They can hibernate, made dormant by all the narcotics the world has to offer, church included. Yet, they never die. These two were on vacation. Three weeks into the sort of spat that only comes after ten years of holy matrimony. On this night, she found herself on the verge of losing consciousness. Knife in hand. Blood trailing her tan lines and the tides inching to their final crescendo begging to take her home. Yes…what a night. But that’s not why you’re reading. No, if you wanted gore, you would just tune in to Twitter. Every 30 minutes, you can watch The Donald butcher the English language and every tradition of the American presidency.
Have you ever had the pleasure of living in the sort of town where the rotary club fucking matters? The kind of place where people hate themselves so much, they find unnecessarily complex ways to matter? Stepford wives or Melrose Place on steroids with the addition of Medicare and pension plans to spice up the early bird special. Harsh words but so is turning 50. The year AARP welcomes you to the tribe. A nightmare for the vain.