In the 2010s, South Florida was a man.
He was shirtless and burned pink, with fried blond hair, and he had maybe just tried to rob a gas station naked, high on bath salts, which, to this day, I still picture as a bag of Dr. Teal’s. South Florida was an alligator in a swimming pool, it was the world’s Walmart; it was always lurid and disgustingly humid, something dirty and diseased that lived on the chyron of the national news.