Widows Bay. More Like Widows Pay.

Widows Bay.

Sounds like a cheap cologne.

Or the name of a place where you go to drown your sorrows after your wife finally leaves you.

Wait, that’s just my living room.

Google trends. Always serving up the important stuff.

While I'm here, wondering if I can call in sick again without getting fired.

My head feels like a bag of rusty hammers.

Got too friendly with a bottle of discount rum last night.

Kids are screaming about cereal.

The dog just puked on the rug.

And society is collectively losing its mind over a bay.

Don’t get me wrong. Bays are fine.

Seagulls. Sand.

Stuff.

But is it going to pay my mortgage?

Is it going to magically replace the half-eaten pizza I'm currently using as a pillow?

No.

It’s not.

Probably some rich people shit.

Or a show.

Don't have time for shows.

Between working, drinking, and trying to remember where I left my car keys, my free time is spoken for.

Speaking of keys.

Shit.

They're in the freezer again.

Always the freezer.

At least it's cold.

Good for the hangover.

Maybe Widows Bay has a good freezer section.

Filled with regret and ice cream.

Now that I could get behind.

But no.

Just another distraction.

While real life is happening.

Or not happening, depending on how much Jameson you had last night.

I gotta go.

Someone's gotta find those keys.

And then figure out how to make coffee with a headache the size of a small country.

Widows Bay can wait.

My liver can't.