I read this in 2023(?). Like Sal (and Kerouac, by extension), I'm prone to bouts of intense restlessness. I've fantasized a lot about just packing up my shit and getting out of dodge on a Greyhound with a couple hundred dollars to my name. Pre-WWII California also fascinates me (re: Steinbeck review). Anyway, I liked using this book to maladaptive daydream about traipsing around America doing drugs and fucking around