Overall the experience was not worth the time spent in the theatre. I could have streamed 3 hours of Planet Earth II and got the same visual experience, and with way more of a relevant plot.
The world is full of good writing, yet while the New York Times is singing it’s Swan Song, Buzzfeed was recently valued at over $1 billion. My guess is we are only about five years away from New York Times headlines that read “We Bombed Yemen, but You Won’t Believe what Happened Next!”
I am spending Valentine’s Day alone, and grateful, and if I had a Valentine that I could share this holiday with… that is to say, if the trains were running, and it wasn’t the worst fucking time of the year, and it didn’t require changing out of my Totoro Onesie…
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…
Depressed and unstable, I went home this past Friday and checked my social calendar (Read: OkCupid) to see if there was anyone to spend time with. Empty. I slumped into my desk chair and made two (yes, two) microwave pizzas.
I took one long drink of my vodka and said that I would love to know his first impression on me. I mean, one of the best things about going on dates with people is you get to learn things about yourself that maybe no one else could have showed you. So, yes. I wanted to hear what this stranger thought about me.
