Once upon a time, I lived in Brooklyn and occasionally went on dates with guys I found on OKCupid. In a depressed and likely alcohol-motivated attempt at getting over a minor sexual rejection, I accepted a date with a fellow I didn’t find especially interesting.
Scary stories make for a fine celebration of this season, marked as it is by the brightly colored demise of all New England’s deciduous green, but death runs deeper for me in October than it does for these yellow and orange and red and increasingly naked trees.
You know what we could do? Lounge around all weekend in your new Totoro Onesie while eating that dozen hardboiled eggs you made and watching an entire season of Gilmore Girls.
I would have undoubtedly continued my obstructionist attitude towards the English language, and its virtually incomprehensible creation, the “th” sound, if not for the invention of video games.
The first sip of beer tasted wonderful, but marked the exact moment that the universe officially decided to conspire against me.
I am 30 years old, it is a Wednesday at 10:55pm and the desk that I am writing this on currently has crumbs from THREE different ramen packets, with not one but TWO variations of soy sauce and a half-finished bottle of whiskey, which I fully intend to finish.
There’s an abandoned building where my favorite bar used to be. It billed itself as a café, but booze paid the bills, and on Wednesday nights the booze paid handsomely. Wednesday was open mic night, and if I missed a week it was because I was out of town. I went when I had to…
The only apt metaphor I can come up with is constipation. Trying to push through my writing turd with the hope that once that first one drops, it will all flood out of me.
I don’t have any tattoos, though I have over the years flirted with the idea of getting one. I don’t judge most tattoo choices, and firmly believe that your decisions are your own, but tribal tattoos are the equivalent of owning and wearing (unironically) a paisley tie. Except they are permanent. I cannot stress enough how stupid tribal tattoos are.
As our drinks arrived, mine in the traditional brown bag, to her even greater dismay, we began to get acquainted. Frankly we had no shared interests, and the date was quickly spiraling to an early conclusion, but then I slipped up…