Ireland Part 3: Bath Salts, Heartbreak and Hipsters

Gin Rummie can suck my dick as it has proven to be a cheaters game and a cruel, sadistic tool of evil.  My fellow travelers are ruthless sadists hell-bent on laughing as each deal digs me deeper into a pit of insanity.  I lead the youngest in our group by sixty points, which would be great, if he hadn’t missed the first three games.  I am a disgrace, but I would rather be a loser in Ireland than the Pharaoh of Clifton Park—which I’m working on also.  We started the card game the first night and will continue keeping a running score until the group split up later on in the trip.  I will never be in the lead, and the game will never cease to be a source of heartache and regret.  Just a miserable fucking card game.  This was taken word for word from my journal.  Just raw emotion.

Ireland Part 2: Arrival in Dublin

I spent the train ride to Dublin trying to take my mind off my error.  Hodge and Joe seemed slightly disgusted with my carelessness but tried valiantly not to hold it against me.  Had I been alone, no one would ever have to know about my tremendous stupidity. We talked about our plans and every time the plan went beyond Ireland, my heart sank, as I was convinced I would be stuck in the country for a long time to come.  Eventually, being a younger and more optimistic Kevin Dooling, I began to excite myself over the newcome ability to meander every nook and cranny of this rich country.  The ruins of castles and miles of green grass I viewed from the window encouraged the sanguine renaissance I was internally trying to nurture.  I reminded myself that I was bellyaching over being stuck in Ireland, on vacation, for a month and just how ridiculous that sounded.

Ireland Part 1: The Lost Passport

I lost my passport almost immediately upon arrival.  Remarkable really.  We had taken a bus from the airport in Shannon to Limerick, and from Limerick we were to take a train to Dublin and somewhere along the line my passport wiggled its way out of my pocket and into a seat cushion of the bus.  I did not realize it was missing until we were in Limerick preparing to board the train to Dublin. I was sweating profusely as I dug through my backpack, knowing full well that it was a fruitless endeavor.  I tore every article of clothing out of my pack and made a glorious spectacle of myself, flinging boxer-briefs and an assortment gear across the train station floor.  Sweat was gathering on my brow, prepping for the plunge down my face.  Finally, accepting defeat I meandered over to the help desk to see if I could get the number of the bus company, and possibly head back to Shannon.  The sense of absolute dread overwhelmed me.  It was college all over again; where I dismissed my father’s warnings only to do every possible action he had suggested I avoid.  What was it that my father had made such a point of about this little endeavor? Yes, keep track of your fucking passport. He had even told a long, painful story of his plight after having his travel-pack stolen while hitchhiking in Israel.  I dismiss these things as too unfortunate to happen to me.  Most people use this mentality towards such things as death, rape or mugging but not I.  I expect everything to work out perfectly and things should go astray, surely it will result only in hilarious and life-affirming stories of adaptation and cool-headedness.  It’s a beautiful sunshine and lollipop attitude to bring into a trip but it is also reckless and dumb as shit.