Monday, June 8, 2015
Alka Seltzer and Ariana Grande are getting me through the day right now. There are burn marks on my back, places my hands failed to reach as I applied sunscreen. The sun is shining outside these office windows and I’m blasting “Love Me Harder. It’s helping me imagine I’m still there, still somewhere on Fire Island. The breakup isn’t as abrupt with this song playing, with me jamming around to it at my desk. I am dancing around, surrounded by attractive men, sun on my skin.
It was a blur of days, of vodka drinks in Solo cups, of pot brownies, of being stoned and goofy and happy. I got home last night absolutely wrecked and slept so hard, sleep something that doesn’t come easy in a beach house with thirteen gay men in it who love to party all day, night, and morning. A couple hours of sleep after the gorgeous sun rises before fearing that fun and sun were being slept through, dragging one’s self to the beach, talking about boys, about dick, about life, about whatever it is people talk about in such a beautiful and gay place.
The walks, as always, were my favorite, those stumbles back and forth through the Meat Rack, crossing between the Grove and the Pines, seeking out fun here or there, enjoying the process of seeking, of walking through those dark woods, dunes around me, sound of ocean waves crashing, stars, so many fucking stars.
I just want to sit on a pier with you and look out over water and let my feet dangle and watch the sunset as we drink cocktails and contemplate what any of it means. Instead, I am back in Manhattan. Turn the song up louder, close your eyes. Click your heels together three times, Dorothy. Return whenever you want.
at 9:46 AM