Slow-moving joggers are weird and bum me out. Honestly, guy, you put on your spandex outfit to stagger down the street more slowly than if you were walking? I don’t want to have to worry that you’re about to drop dead of a heart attack in front of me while I’m trying to enjoy my afternoon jaunt.
Happy (almost) Passover, brethren! I’ll be celebrating the holiday by arguing about Obama and getting crunk on Manischewitz with my family. L’chaim!
Hey, LADY. Yes, I’m talking to you. I see from your three Kipling suitcases and aqua traveler’s belt that you’re on your way back to Quedlinburg. Well, guess what – you’re still in NYC, and here, it’s NOT OKAY to roll over a stranger’s foot on the subway, make eye contact, and not apologize. You can redeem yourself by never coming back to my city.
Somehow, since I’ve started blitzing the city with my Fangs of New York stickers, my hit count has gone DOWN. What’s that about? I’m pretty sure that God doesn’t punish people for shameless self-promotion, or else Lana Del Rey would already be a skeleton.
It’s a bummer when you realize that the cute guy across the aisle on the subway is not, in fact, making eyes at you, but at the girl you’re sitting next to. It’s even more of a bummer when you realize that she’s making eyes back at him. WTF, guys. We’re not at speed dating. Take it somewhere else before I’m forced to unite you in your pain.
Once upon a time, I went to a university in Scotland for three years. I hated it so much that I applied for a transfer to The New School here in NYC after my third year. What I’m ashamed to admit is that my admission portfolio consisted of the basic application plus the following two gems:
1. A piece of ‘art,’ which was an incredibly shitty drawing of a human heart with the different parts labeled after the neighborhoods of Manhattan and the caption, “I left my heart in New York City,”
2. An audio recording of me singing the Glasvegas song “Daddy’s Gone” in a Scottish accent. I attached a note that said, “This is the only thing I learned how to do in Scotland.”
Shock of all shocks – they didn’t take me.
When I was a senior in High School, most of my grade went to the Bahamas for Spring Break. It was awesome; everyone in the city you could possibly want to see or interact with in a tropical locale was there. What wasn’t so awesome was the night that I drank an entire Yard at Senor Frog’s. I sort of remember dancing wildly and feeling great until we got in a cab to go to the next club, a place (ironically) called Cocktails & Dreams. When we arrived, I staggered over to a swinging bench on the beach and threw myself onto it, only to pitch forward face-first into the sand. It occurred to me then, as I lay on the ground in a semi-comatose state, that the night was not going to improve from there.
I finally got up and made my way to the bathroom, which I soon learned was a problematic place to be for two reasons. There was a bathroom attendant stationed by the sinks, which would’ve been fine, except for the fact that the bathroom doors were so short that she could see me as I rested on the dirty, dirty floor in the fetal position.
I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you something I learned that night: there are few things more degrading than hearing other drunk bitches talk about you while you’re basically catatonic and unable to defend yourself. They kept saying things like, “OMG, holy SHIT, do you see that GIRL?? She’s, like, TOTALLY PASSED OUT on the FLOOR! And she’s wearing a DRESS! Do you think she’s OK?! LOLZHAHAHA”), and I could form sentences in my mind, but I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. It was like being in hell. Finally, the bathroom attendant summoned some of my friends, and they took me home in a cab while I clutched a cup of water and tried not to die.
Man…those sure were the days.