Five bleary-eyed, hungover, mosquito-feasted-upon, red throbbing piles sit around the pool this morning. You can put us in Frette linens with Bvlgari bath amenities and maid service twice a day, but the reality is we are a mess.

When you look at the magazine spreads of the Caribbean you see perfectly sculpted, tan models sunning themselves while butlers serve them fruity drinks with umbrellas. What they don’t tell you is how damn strong the sun is and how your body becomes a full service buffet for thousands of bugs. We are in so much pain that we are praying for rain today just so we don’t feel guilty for holing up in our rooms hiding from the sun.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating but I’ve been to four islands in eight days and I don’t think my body can take any more “paradise.” The bubbling sun blister on my arm speaks for itself. Give me takeout and DVR. NYC…I’m coming home.

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