Right now, I'm thinking of the beach. I scraped my finger, hard, on a barnacle trying to pick it off a rock. I attempted to nurse a monarch butterfly back to health with a girl I never saw again. The butterfly's wings were torn up. We found it tumbling across the beach. I watched a lot of Toonami in motel rooms. Ate a lot of glowing lollipops shaped like alien heads. I used to get stuck in the "Grand Orient Funhouse" and cry. Another beach, a state over, had more arcades, more liquor and cigarettes, more burnt Canadians wearing small bathing suits. Within an arcade, there was a music store that sold bootleg CDs and Insane Clown Posse merchandise. Everywhere smelled like liquor, cigarettes and fried skin. I got drunk off white wine and stumbled to a seafood restaurant with my mother. Whistled at snails hiding in their shells and watched hermit crabs swim through tide pools. Met a lot of dogs. Took a lot of photos. Have you ever thrown up a half-pound of watermelon off the side of the Matterhorn? I have. Now I just waste my money on arcade games. I've sworn off rides.