I Would Kill Your Mother To Go Back To Hawaii
Hey, listen. It’s nothing personal about your Mom. I’m sure she’s lovely. Yes, yes, I know, she makes a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies. But I gotta tell you, if she’s standing in the way of me and Hawaii, I’ma kill her. I’ll make it fast. Frying pan to the head or something. Whang! Then I’m on the plane, giggling like a tickled schoolgirl. Molesting the lai around my neck.
That’s all this post is. Me letting you know that, if I had to, I’d be willing to put your mother six feet deep to get me back in the tropical state of Hawaii.
I’m not really a beach person.
I fear the water like I fear the reaper’s scythe.
And yet, Hawaii changed me, man. It got in me. I opened my body and let its turtle spirit inside. I’m all like Mahalo, bitches. I can still smell the sand and the tropical flowers.
Winter freaks my shit out. Hawaii doesn’t have a winter. I mean, I guess it does — it rains a little more. But in January, it’s 70 degrees. They have mountains. And valleys. And a bazillion waterfalls. And whales. And giant tortoises. (And centipedes that could eat your face, but we won’t talk about that.) It makes me happy just thinking about it. Then I look outside, and I see the gunmetal nothing of the Pennsylvanian sky, and I just shit sadness. I literally shit sadness, and it looks like a puff of gray cotton, an old dude’s pubes, soaking and sodden with his own tears.
I want real Kona coffee. I want to smell flowers when I get off an airplane. I want words with few consonants and a fuckbasket full of apostrophes as if I’m in some crazy fantasy land (“Welcome to Ma’i'ohalo’ainai’punau’wi’ipi’ioo’oopoo!”). I want sun. I want warmth. I want rainforests and lava rocks and the fear that Pele herself might smite me for stealing volcanic dust in my shoes.
So I’m just giving you the head’s up, brah. I ain’t dicking around. I will collapse your mother’s trachea with a surfboard just to get back to Hawaii. I don’t even care what island. I want to frolic with the mongooses. I want to ride a giant Kalij Pheasant into the sunset. I want turtles all the way down. I want a loco moco as my home. I want to appreciate your kokua. And I will kill your mother to do it. So help me, I will kill her dead. Double-dead. Let her know. Let her know I’m coming for her. My surfboard is waxed. It thirsts for her lifeforce.
(For the record, I won’t really kill your Mom. She can take me. And no, we have no current plans to go back to the islands. Someday, though. Someday.)