July 29th, 1990
I’m 17 years old with $100.00 in spending money. (That may not sound like a lot, but in Mexico it goes far.) I’m at a resort frequently visited by the Captain Steubing and the crew of The Love Boat. There’s no drinking age. I should be having the time of my life, right?
NO.
I’m sick. Fever, swollen gland, can’t-breathe-or-leave-the-room SICK. And to add to my pain, all my pictures taken in the last 2 1/2 weeks have been overexposed because the film door opened up in my suitcase.
Let’s just say that at this point everything sucks. Not even otherwise amusing anecdotes about my 8 hour overnight bus trip (opting not to pee in the bathroom/wildlife preserve and choosing instead the more sanitary garbage dump on the side of the road, or watching two stowaways climb out of the luggage compartment beneath the bus after 3 hours on the road…) could make me smile right now.
I called home. I talked to my dad which I can say might be the one good thing that comes out of this bad.
There’s this western movie on about this guy that terrorizes Lawrence, Kansas and if I’d never talked to Rberto I would never know that Lawrence, Kansas is indeed a real place and home to K.U.
Let’s see. I’m feeling a little less like death since I took my medicine, but i don’t have any more money to do anything out in the wild streets of Aculpulco anyway so it’s probably better if I feel like shit. (The doctor and the shot of penicillan in my ass cost 95,000 pesos. 100 pesos is worth about 50 cents so you do the math.) Not that I expect someone to give up their entire vacation, but the fact that I’m sick doesn’t seem to matter to anyone besides my roommates and that’s only because I’m sharing a room with them and they can’t avoid me.
I’m so upset about my film. I’m thinking about all the pictures I really wanted to see and it just pisses me off. My dad advised me to hurl my camera across the room and throw it away which I did and it made me feel better. We are alike, which is probably why we don’t get along too well.
Everyone went skinny dipping last night. I’m not sure why I felt it necessary to write that. Maybe it’s because I wonder if B was really a part of it, if she’ll still belong as one of the gang once they wake up, sober up. We’re going back to New Jersey in a week, so it doesn’t matter anyway. Rbbie is going away in five days. Forever. And he’s down the hall in the room he’s sharing with Claudine and Rberto and hasn’t even checked to see if I’m still alive.
I did get a phone call from Claudine, though. They probably drew straws and she lost.
