Guts All Over The Pavement

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• November 25, 2025

The dead don’t last long in the heat. A squirrel, freshly killed by a vehicle, is like McDonald’s for the hovering scavenger birds. They arrive so quickly, it’s almost as if they too have smart phones, binging them with notifications when there’s a meal nearby that you don’t have to work for. They swoop in, now in competition with each other. A rip of flesh here, a tear of flesh there. It’s not a Thanksgiving type feast. It’s a quick trash meal and it’s all they know.

Another car comes and flattens the squirrel. Guts all over the pavement. You can almost feel the resentment from the birds circling above. They will still swoop down for a mouthful of bloody scraps. Fucking carnivores are never satisfied anyway.

I’ve seen too much. Captivated by the natural gore of existence, frozen in the urge to observe or run, as a witness I’ve overstayed a welcome I never had. Florida is always flourishing with life, with the constant battle of predator and prey tucked into every shadowed shrubbery, something waiting to end a life to continue it’s own.

There’s nothing subtle about the scavenger unlike the serpent. Snakes may be friends of the devil, but you have to give them some credit for not leaving a mess when they eat.

The blood lust of these creatures is forgivable knowing that it’s not labor of love, but a means of survival. What’s the better part of their day, I wonder, eating or the brief satisfaction after the fact? Sunshine lust part of the reason I’m here. Part of the reason I do anything. Escape the darkening cold of New York’s November with my niece in tow to my folks. The holidays are a time of year I enjoy because I love my family. When people say, “I hate the holidays,” what they’re really telling you is, “I hate my family.”

When my appetite for the warm sun isn’t satisfied, my mind and body suffer. My friend says I’m a sea witch. Perhaps many sea turtles would agree. The turtles wait, not for me or for anyone in particular, in Hawaii. I’ll start the New Year there. For no other reason than, “why not?” The freelance life is frightfully filled with the anxiety of not knowing where things will go, but that is also the high price of freedom. Freedom is a tricky thing. And a normal person is quick to give it up upon the realization of the sacrifice of certainty. Fortunate to have good friends who also have good friends, I am blessed with favorable company and opportunity to chase an endless summer. After all, if I had a million dollars tomorrow, I would go straight to Hawaii. So why not do it on a budget? The sun, salt, sand, sapphire blue ocean, surf board, sunsets and seared fresh caught fish is a recipe for happiness. As sure as the moon will rotate the Earth, your troubles bother you less, if at all, when you are sure you have arrived in paradise.

Overlooking emerald mountains that would make the Wizard of OZ go weak at the knees is where I will work and play for the start of the year. The alternative is stay in the frigid city that will be even colder than a cabbie’s attitude towards their passengers. The alternative to stay inside, duped to being glued to the toxic scrolling of the phone. The alternative is inviting a major depression and writing about it, guts spilled all over the keyboard.

No thank you, I’ll pass this time. I’ll fly away. Sun lust keeps the sea witch from cursing the world, cursing herself. In New York, I wait for someone or something, not anyone or anything in particular anymore. Day after day, with that Hawaii calendar hanging on the wall, a reminder that there is always a place to look forward to. Must I sun lust? I must. I must.