I must apologize to the ten or so readers that I have on my blog. The date that I am writing this entry is November 21, 2013. So any blog entries dated between August and November will be written looking back in time. I am like so far behind on blog entries. I could blame it on laziness. I could blame it on work. I could blame it on a woman. But truth be told, I haven’t sat down with a bottle of bourbon and a writer’s spirit in a long time.

In regard to a woman, I have since had my heart ripped out, thrown in a blender and watched it spin into a beautiful oblivion. OK, so maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it wasn’t the most pleasant feeling in the world. So in fairness to her, I will keep her removed from articles unless imperative to the crux of the story. In all honesty, I have nothing bad to say…

Moving on. When I was little my parents and I visited Saint Augustine. Unfortunately we did not have the time to visit the Fountain of Youth as my dad was busy with a job interview (which would inevitably take my Margarita spirit to the Bluegrass). Ever since, I knew drinking this immortal water was a bucket list item that needed to be kicked. Approaching the park, you begin to think you’re not in the right spot because it too quickly becomes residential. Then you make a turn onto a street where there’s more Spanish moss that your dreams of living on a plantation in the south. Then you find the entrance.

After parking and paying whatever the park fee is, you walk into an open outdoor park without much direction. To your side is a fountain. The Fountain of Youth? Why are no people standing around it? No, its just a pretty fountain outside.

Then you turn around and see an old building with ivy growing down the side like your back home in Kentucky (I say ivy but I know nothing of the botany field). So the Fountain of Youth is inside? OK, I can work with this.

There is your average museum tour guide guy standing beside the fountain telling you all the information pertinent to why you are visiting even though you will never remember a word he says. A feeling of confusion overtakes you. This is the Fountain of Youth? Hell, they could have told me the one outside was it and I would have been much more happier.

The man offers you a dixie cup’s worth of water from the fountain along with a photo. The water is that slimy earthy feeling water that reminds you of Ghostbusters. The three photo’s he takes for you and your girlfriend all turn out blurry. Then the photo your girlfriend captures for you is one where you have no smile. You leave the fountain disappointed. But at least there is more park to explore.

Like a rooster in Key West, you are suddenly shocked by the fact that wild life is roaming free right in front of you (It just occurred to me that I have written a great amount of this post in the second person. Fuck you Jay McInerney). Unfortunately the beautiful creature never spreads its beauty in all its worth for you.

It is OK though because coming up behind you is an albino peacock. According to Wikipedia, its not truly an Albino but the Angel’s Envy has me to unconcerned to research any further on the issue. Just admire the beauty.

When the haze of wildlife’s beauty leaves you, realize there is an Indian Burial Ground right behind you. You will probably be haunted for the rest of your life. At least that’s how you feel when you walk into the building behind the sign. Creepy.

At this point you feel like there’s not much left to do in the park but walk along the ocean and take in its wonderful calmness. Boy are wrong because Florida decides to remind you that you are indeed still in the Bible Belt with one of the largest crosses in the nation. Its quite a remarkable engineering feat to lay your eyes upon.

There are a few other spots and historical signs to read in the park about Ponce de Leon and some other bullshit. Don’t be a toolbox and read them like you are going to remember them for a test or some question on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Just admire the historical significance and head to the bar in the parking lot so you can discuss how Orwell, Bradbury, and Moore basically told us decades ago that this world was going to hell and how so correct they were over a nice refreshing drink.