After Woodstock, I determined to not miss any opportunities for adventure. I turned 20 in 1970. It was a glorious time. They wouldn't lower the drinking age until I was already 21, but it didn't matter.
I jumped from job to job and eventually from state to state.
The Ramones and Disco. Disney World and Studio 54. Deep Throat and Star Wars. Peace and love were out but I didn't care about much of that anyway. The weed stuck around. That's what mattered.
I started to realize I was relatively indestructible. I'd never been sick, at least not that I could remember. But it didn't really dawn on me that that might be abnormal. But in the 70s I abused my body in ways that should have set me back for at least days at a time. But no hangovers. No overdoses. I could go on benders relatively unscathed. I would wake up from a blackout with some gash across my arm. I'd wash it with some soap and water and by the next day, it was mostly healed.
After my discovery with the deer in the woods, I figured out ways to supplement my raw meat diet with fresh blood. During one particularly dark period, I was wandering around a particularly seedy area of Los Angeles and stumbled upon a dead body. At first, I thought it was just someone passed out in the alley. I'm not even sure what drew me to her. But as I checked for a pulse and found none, I also felt a lingering warmth. Then instinct took over.
That was an enlightening experience. I wasn't hungry for weeks after that.