I drank all day and most of the night. Bars in CT had to close around 1am. I threw up out my window as I drove home. Sometimes, a thing just comes naturally. So naturally that you don't even have to try. I could have driven across America, throwing up out my window, cursing god and his miserable creation, 13 times, I was that good at it. There was an island about a mile off the coast of Mystic, CT. I think it was Fischer's Island. It was part of New York and in the summer, the bar was open until 4AM. I went on down to the docks to find a little boat to borrow, with an outboard pull-start motor. I'd point the bow towards the lights on the water. I rarely thew up on the way to fisher's island. It was 1:15 or so when I pulled up to dock. I'd get out and walk the few hundred feet to the entrance of the only bar on the island. Inside was filled with rich kids, their parents asleep in their Island Summer Homes, or still in the City, working their important jobs - lawyers, captain's of industry, a veterinarian. whatever - the kids didn't know their parents and their parents didn't know their kids. In a place like that, you could get a blow-job in the toilet, maybe finger one of them at the bar - pretend you didn't even realize what was going on. the desire for authenticity is easily exploited among the rich; they've never been hungry, never been thirsty - it's easy to see how unreal their whole existence has been. Play with it - tell them they're ugly, they look small, they're prude and let their insecurities and their character flaws pour out into your glass and all over your balls. At 4am, I'd walk on down to the docks, dizzy and alone, hoping for a tidal wave to wash us all clean. No tidal wave ever came - it turns out that Long Island was in the way of everything, ruining all my plans to die a meaningful death.
