Updates and chronicle of a ferry ride.

The short version: I haven’t heard from Mr. Wonderful in a week, I don’t expect to again, I’m mostly done mourning the loss, I stopped trying for the thing that feels like home but I think that’s partially a byproduct of my failure with Mr. Wonderful and a more realistic perspective that he wouldn’t be into me, I’ve had to fight dudes I want nothing to do with off with a fucking bat, I wrote a song for the first time in about a decade about something that happened over a year ago, I’ve become a Mets fan for the short-term postseason, my father/stepmother legally defeated my mother, my grandmother is fiscally preparing for her own death and making me a joint account holder, I’ve progressed at lock-picking but I’m still really awful at it, I’ve been pretty depressed but I can’t tell if it’s depression or exhaustion so I made a counseling appointment, this is the longest run-on sentence I’ve ever written, and the bartenders on the Cross Sound Ferry suck at their jobs.

I could write more, but if you were paying attention, the depression/exhaustion is pretty predominant. I don’t feel like reading Rachel’s poetry, or continuing my re-read of Ishmael, or writing, or even continuing to sit at a bar and not get served, mostly due to the trio of douchebags and shitty bartender who hasn’t acknowledged my existence in the 20 minutes I’ve been sitting here. I’m tempted to record their conversation—last was about a song modified from Montell Jordan’s “This is How We Do It” to be “This is Sloppy Tuna,” which was basically the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

At last! Bartender looked at me…as he took the order of two people that walked up next to me thirteen seconds ago. “This is Sloppy Tuna,” sung again. Now the genius is trying to distinguish the difference between towns on (eastern) Long Island because this is the “first time he’s ever been to Montauk.” Good lord.

How quickly this has turned around. My completely judging these Bud Light drinking, completely uninteresting individuals (the irony of their being the main focus of this post could just be indicative of my being even less interesting), coupled with attention and apologies, and a Dark & Stormy from the bartender, has completely shifted my mood into wanting to share this horrendous display with others that won’t read it. Perfect.

Their food and second round of Bud Lights has arrived, so they have refrained from talking. I can’t figure out where Blondie is from. His hair/clothes/sunglasses scream Cali, but the cowboy hat throws me off. He doesn’t have an accent of any kind. He’s been mentally preparing for winter, or his body knows it’s coming, because he’s been eating a lot lately. Or maybe it’s the “cowboy music” he’s been listening to, which included a line that stated, “you never know when you’re going to get your next meal.” However, he could be on the trail for a while, eating beans, so he has to enjoy it while he has it. That could have made them so much more interesting, but the conversation stopped. They remain as exciting as rocks.

The quesadilla has just the right amount of something and is really good. They must have a real commercial kitchen back there, because the quesadilla has some nice crunch to it and the chicken is pretty good too. But “kid” better not be talking about sour cream because Blondie feels very passionate about it. Y’know, I think that’s what did it – the fucking nicknames, kid. There was another one—damn my over-extended brain for not recalling it. I can’t tell if these guys have known each other for 25 years or met three weeks ago. Kid has a severe aversion to putting cream on burritos but doesn’t speak much. Fleece Vest lives in eastern LI so he must come with money and a pretentious attitude….and a teal fleece vest…and the patience of a saint as he describes that the east end of Long Island is just a one-lane road.

Huzzah! Kid speaks! He is aware of current events. They’re not international events, but at the very least he knows about Yelp suing South Park last week. So I guess he has Facebook, ha. Come on, dudes, impress me. I’m bored to death and my mood and mediocre level of intoxication can only take me so far. Oh good, a lull in their non-existent conversation, perfect time for Blondie and FV to check their phones. Why isn’t Kid? Oh, because he could hold out for about three minutes longer than his friends.

They’ll be wherever they are going around 11. So will I. Oh no. I hope they’re going somewhere on the north shore, so they are far from me…no, wait. They’re going to drive down the north fork and back up the south fork, yes. Westhampton style. I hate that stupid island.

A girl at bowling kept saying, “hey, what’s up, hello” the other night and then Trap Queen was stuck in everyone’s head for like a day. Cool story, bro. “No chin, no butt—it’s all in the boobs.” WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST MISS while I was in my head thinking about…what? Oh, right, I was trying to consider how much money I would pay to listen to any of these three prodigies have an intelligent thought. I got distracted by the butt and boobs conversation, dammit.

Kid is apparently mid-breakup and FV suggested he have read the BSC books to understand how difficult it is to get someone to cover your baby-sitting shift. I am officially clueless and Kid speaks too softly to catch up. They are leaving, but I have chicken fingers and a second D&S to humor me for the next half hour. Unless, of course, they don’t leave…

But seriously, think about the bullshit they had to overcome to let the banks let us use Venmo, which is the greatest app of our time. It helped Blondie and FV pay Kid back for covering their tab, but I notice FV didn’t actually pay Kid, only Blondie. Phones and Austin Powers. It’s okay, guys, you can go. Your beers are gone; now you’re just sitting here being boring as fuck and quoting Austin Powers. “Hey, what’s up, hello…” Thanks, Blondie. I’d truly rather that than “This is Sloppy Tuna.”

Shippy’s. That is as local as the “local bar” gets. This gives me a jump-off point for finding out where they are going. Fantastic. Southampton. I win this game. FV and Kid are east end south shore kids. Like new money folk, I guess, in Gatsby terms.

Alas, Poor Yorick, this event is now dead. I have lost just about all interest, save for Kid scrolling through some chick’s Facebook photos, telling me that sometimes dudes do that too, though it’s like 45 minutes less than chicks do it. Facebook à Instagram. Snapchat’s also a contender, but not popular enough for him to open. Blondie dropped his cowboy hat on his way back from “the head,” and ventured outside. I give him four minutes before returning, frozen. … … … It took him three.

Blondie is now three seats closer to me. They came from Boston. Blondie drove. His pink striped socks match his pink button-down. They probably own Google or some ridiculous shit and I’m sitting here tearing apart their inability to hold a single topic in conversation for more than 50 seconds.

…and THIS is one of the bigger reasons why I could never truly have been with Mr. Wonderful. He is too many of the things I judge from my ghetto upbringing, from my cynicism. I am intelligent, I have proven myself capable, but I will always be from nothing and I will always doubt my own self-worth. So I judge Blondie and FV and Kid, because really, it’s easier than judging myself.


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