Story of a Boy Town State
The state of Connecticut is a terrible place to live. If it’s an animal with Hartford as heart southeast would be anus and Rhode Island shit shat out. That’s not fair—RI doesn’t deserve to be shit out CT’s ass; RI’s a nice state. But if you ever find yourself traveling through CT do yourself a favor: don’t stop. If you have to stop, stop in one of those reststops along the interstate with fastfood foodcourts and have a taco or burger but don’t stop in any towns and especially don’t stop in a town in the southeast section and especially especially don’t stop in a town called Groton. If for some reason you do stop in Groton don’t worry—nothing will happen. And if you end up stopped there for 10 to 20 years—say, because your dad gets transferred there when you’re a teenager then after high school you have no real prospects for the future but you have some good friends, and family, and maybe you’ve got a decent job like, I don’t know, driving a bus or a garbage truck or exterminating pests so you stick around and have some fun and life is good but not great and sometimes it sucks but it’s never really bad, not really, because you have a place to live and food in your fridge and a job you don’t love but don’t hate and pays bills and like I said already you have friends, and family, so there’s not too much to complain about except you’re not really fulfilling your life’s potential—you know, what J Campbell calls following your bliss—and there’s nothing to do in this town so you hang out at coffeeshops and drink a lot of coffee and bars and drink beer and talk a lot of shit and drink a lot and jerk-off a lot and try to get laid as often as possible while your friends move on and some just stop and some smoke weed and some play music and some burn out and some fade away and some just dance but mostly we just count days till the next next thing and hope for the best—if any of this happens to you, you might know what it’s like to be Ed Go. And if none of this has ever happened to you—if your life isn’t even remotely like this and you don’t know what the hell I’m rambling on about, well, fuck you. This isn’t yours. But if you’ve read this far chances are you dig what I’m saying. But whether you dig it or don’t, take my advice: if you’re passing through CT don’t stop but if you do stop and the place you stop happens to be a town called Groton, don’t worry—head over to Navy housing—the world’s biggest submarine base is there, you know—and drive along Gungywamp Rd winding its way through Viking-haunted woods connecting two disparate sides of town and somewhere along the way you’ll see a playground—one of the major settings of this story—though it’s unremarkable in every other way—it’s just a playground after all——it’s here our protagonist—at 16—with a girl he met between English and Biology——a friend of a friend of a friend———under July bombs bursting—————
on second thought if you have to pass through CT don’t pass through CT. Go around it.