I'm Not An Island Boy, I'm An Island Man.

Self-imposed exile.

I am gradually descending into madness. I have been living in exile for months now. The outside world is a distant memory. I don’t even remember what normal food tastes like.

I have been sent to an island deep in the tropics and will be eaten alive if I ever attempt to leave. I am a prisoner.

My days are monotonous. I wake up at the same time every day—noon. I socialize with the local tribe (WASPs). I eat the native cuisine (shrimp cocktails and wedge salads). I use my sticks and attempt to entertain myself on the local terrain. Yes, golf. I am permanently dehydrated from martinis. I have begun talking to Wilson, my Pro V1.

Occasionally, an outsider appears—a West Palm Beacher—so a small group of locals and I immediately terrorize them until they retreat. We call the cops.

There are predators constantly circling the island searching for fresh meat. They’re in Bentley SUVs with their toy poodles.

Yes, the island is Palm Beach.

To me, the drawbridge doesn’t exist. That’s where my world ends. It’s like The Truman Show. Anything off the island is a giant screen. This is my life.

And… unfortunately, I love it.

My problems have disappeared. I have stopped aging. I get complimented constantly. I get along with everyone. I’m in the best shape of my life. Everyone looks like me. It’s Squidville, but for those with trust funds.

The outside world is crumbling. My only choice was to roll up my Purple Label sleeves, raise the drawbridge, and commit myself to the grueling schedule of doing absolutely nothing at The Colony.

I am an Island Man. Now please excuse me. I have to get back to a conversation with this nice lady about her toy poodle.

TFM