2013, or the time of delayed re-entry from hiatus.

After booking a flight to Los Angeles and settling in on an overhyped purchase of a bougie-ass camera to make a bougie-ass documentary about my inexperienced ass hiking 700 miles across Iceland, I’ve found myself back at the Dollar rack at CVS, stocking up on bags of Cheese Twists and Strawberry Cookies for a dollar each. The diet pepsi I bought cost more than both items together at a staggering $2.19, but still, I keep my head held high.

I celebrated the second (third?) demise of my checking and savings accounts by going to a concert by myself. My friend who I was going to go with bailed on me, and by that I mean he forgot there was a concert in New York City the very same night he was still in Atlanta.  I actually googled ‘Is it good to go to a concert by yourself?’ and came across hundreds of forum entries from strangers telling other strangers that (apparently) it’s one of the most courageous things you can do nowadays, right alongside eating by yourself at a restaurant without ever taking out your phone. I went and I felt courageous and I even dressed nicely in case I met somebody who could become a new friend or companion (one forum really emphasized that ‘concert attire is KEY’). No such thing happened of course, and I didn’t meet anybody except for some astute-as-HELL girl who saw I was carrying my jacket throughout the concert and felt the urge to tell me forty minutes into the show that there was a Coat Rack downstairs. Thank You. 


It was Purity Ring’s concert at Webster Hall. They’re kinda what you could imagine the personification of an electronic refractory period being; really gratifying and equally sexy and uncomfortable and making you crave something ridiculous like a Camel Blue or a buttered croissant- preferably while dancing. There were a lot of single Gay men at the concert (albeit, some looking mighty swell- facial hair works well when wearing Cerulean Blue) who all had the tendency to scout you out, pass by you, NOT EVEN bump into you, and still feel the need to say ‘Sorry, oh God, so Sorry’ to your face, try so hard to make eye contact with you, then pass you by like nothing happened, come back with their $10 Sam Adams and start acting with their friends as if they’re the sexiest packs of abdomens this guy’s ever seen. To them, I kept saying the same thing, ‘no, you’re not, I just wish I could afford to sip that overpriced piss.’ One day though. One day soon enough. For now though, onward with the cheese twists. They taste like Cheetos after you’ve blow-dried the grease and flavor out of them.



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