May 2026

Woke up hungover in a California king after a long night at Savaya. The oceanfront suite was spinning. My skull felt hollow. My tongue like the floor of the Gobi Desert.

There was a fresh bottle of water sitting on the nightstand.

Which was strange because I had absolutely no memory of putting it there.

In fact, I was certain I hadn’t.

I stumbled back to the resort at three, four, whatever in the morning. I barely remember making it down to my room.

I was wearing nothing but my Maison Du Coq™ boxer briefs. My clothes from the night before were folded neatly on the chair across from the bed.

Hang on a second.

There’s no way. There is absolutely no fucking universe in which I come home blackout drunk and fold my clothes.

I barely fold my clothes sober.

Without a shadow of a doubt, the hotel staff had watched me drunkenly show up in the lobby and  entered my room sometime during the night to check on me. They crisply folded my outfit. They placed a bottle of water next to my bed. They probably even tucked me in. Maybe gave me a little kiss on the forehead before turning out the lights.

Should I have been concerned or felt violated?

Fuck no. Exceptional service. I love these people. 

Anyways. 

Did my normal morning routine. Every day had a rhythm to it. Dipped into the private infinity pool overlooking the Indian ocean with the sun already bright and high in the sky. Dunked my head underwater like I was baptizing myself. Every day was a new beautiful adventure.

Dried off, threw on clothes, breakfast and coffee. Hit a different gym every day — I’d feel good about my physique until the guy next to me turned out to be basically prime Dolph Lundgren. Everyone in Bali is beautiful and ripped. 

Lunch, iced americano, back to the pool to rinse off again.

I was sitting on a bench in the lobby with my backpack full of Bintangs and a beach towel. Was planning to meet a blonde australian hippy girl from Raya for midday surf. Just scrolling Instagram on my phone while I was waiting for my ride to the beach. 

Then. 

My phone rang. 

Incoming call. It was her name. 

Her face in the contact image was staring at me. A face and image I’d seen so many times before.

Felt like the world stopped for a second. I took a deep breath. 

I broke up with her in January. I had not spoken to her since. I finally tried to reach out a month ago to talk and gain some closure and extend an olive branch because our circles are sort of intertwined and things are weird. But she never answered me.  

Our first date we went to dinner then a wine bar then back to my apartment and stayed up until three in the morning talking and laughing and spilling wine. I remember thinking that I never wanted her to leave. 

I fell in love with her. 

I thought she was it. I wanted to give her the world. She felt like home. 

The last time I saw her, we hugged and she left and we never spoke again. 

So when I saw her face and name and number pop up on my phone I just, stopped. 

Maybe she’d had a catharsis and snapped out of whatever spell her friends imbued upon her and I could say thank you for the memories and we could have a laugh and wish each other well and this weird hateful saga could end. 

I tapped the answer button and put the phone to my ear. 

I didn’t say anything. Just listened in silence for seconds that felt like minutes. 

Finally, she said: hello? 

Hello. 

Heyy, um, what are you doing?

I’m uh, I’m about to go su— 

She cut me off started stammering the most vile insults I’ve ever received. 

Attacking my character, my physical appearance, anything she could. She told me I’d be alone forever. That I’d be miserable and deserved a horrible fate. 

I didn’t know what to say. I just listened. 

I’m sorry you feel this way, I said. 

Then she told me to kill myself. 

“No, please, seriously, you should just kill yourself. The world would be a better place without you in it. You fucking loser”

…

“Just fucking kill yourself”. 

She hung up. 

Instead of killing myself i went surfing. 

I can ride a wave to the shore now.