"Yeah, I'm a freakin' flamingo."
That was me. You don't mess with a Jersey girl "with a chip on her shoulder."
Anyway, my Mo, like me, was crestfallen and dad and I hardly spoke on our way back to the Everglades in an open-windowed Humvee (it had AC but he refused to turn it on, telling me to get use to it). Upon circling over the Everglades to land at MIA, I looked out the window to see if it was on fire. It was but now I could SMELL the gray smoke and FEEL the white soot as it rushed through the open window and attached itself to my body, sticking to my sweaty skin, covering me, my to-die-for outfit, and my Mo with "Everglades Snow." My eyes were burning and it took all my willpower not to cough in the presence of the head banging jarhead driving hell bent for leather into the fire and smoke to Judas Priest on the radio.
Yeah. Who knew?